UC-NRLJF 


B    M    QDfi    Ibb 


WITH  MUD 
dnd  GLORY 


GEORGES  LAFOND 


i 


^ 


COVERED  WITH  MUD  AND  GLORY 


"He's  Hit,"  Sergeant  Lace  Cries  suddenly.    And 
INDEED  He  Is  Hit     See  page  loi 


COVERED  WITH  MUt) 
AND  GLORY 

A  Machine  Gun  Company  in  Action 

("Ma  Mitrailleuse") 
BY 

GEORGES  LAFOND 

Sergeant-Major,  Territorial  Hussars,  French  Army;  Intelligence 
Officer,  Machine  Gun  Sections,  French  Colonial  Infantry 

With  a  Preface  by  Maurice  Barres 

of  tbe  French  Academy 

Translated  by  Edwin  Gile  Rich 


INCLUDING 

<<A  Tribute  to  the  Soldiers  of  France" 

BY 

GEORGES  CLEMENCEAU 


BOSTON 
SMALL,  MAYNARD  ^  COMPANY 


PUBLISHERS 


Copyright,   191 8 

By  Small,   Maynard  &  Company 

(incorporated) 


THE   UNIVERSITY  PRESS,    CAMBRIDGE,   U.  S.  A. 


Wo  tlje  Mtmavv  of 

My  Comrades  of  the  second  company  of  machine  guns 
of  the  .   .   .  first  Colonials 

who  fell  at  the  battle  of  the  Somme  in  July,  1916, 
and  of  the  Aisne  in  April,  1917; 

Wo 

Lieutenants  Maisonnave  and  Dupouy 

m  remembrance  of  the  hours  of  fine,  sincere  comradeship  we  lived 
together; 

Denys  Maurin 

the  quartermaster-sergeant,  wounded  heroically  before  Soissons, 
in  testimony  of  a  sincere  friendship  which  was  born  under  shell- 
fire,  which  grew  amid  the  horrors  of  grim  madness,  and  which 
was  firmly  fixed  through  sharing  common  hopes  and  common  joys; 

/  dedicate  these  simple  pages 

which  are  only  a  modest  contribution  to 
the  monumental  narrative  which  these 
anonymous  epics  of  every  day  would  make 


MSg3679 


A  TRIBUTE  TO  THE  SOLDIERS  OF 
FRANCE 

By  Georges  Clemenceau 

I  WATCH  our  blue-uniformed  men  at  war,  as 
they  pass  with  a  friendly  and  serious  look, 
generously  covered  with  mud.  This  is  the  artil- 
lery —  slow  marching  —  which  is  moving  its 
cannon  under  a  fantastic  camouflage,  a  mockery 
of  reality.  A  glistening  slope  of  soaked  earth  is 
set  in  a  frame  of  shattered  trees,  twisted  into  in- 
describable convulsions  of  anguish  with  the  gaping 
wounds  inflicted  by  the  storm  of  Iron.  On  their 
horses,  already  covered  with  winter  shag,  the 
poilus,  slouched  in  all  sorts  of  positions,  having 
no  suggestion  of  the  rigid  form  of  the  manoeuvre, 
are  going  from  one  battlefield  to  another  without 
any  other  thought  except  that  of  just  keeping  on 
going. 

In  colorless  and  shapeless  uniforms,  indescrib- 
ably rigged  out,  and  in  poses  of  the  most  pleasur- 
able leisure,  the  soldiers  of  France  picturesquely 
[vii] 


COVERED  WITH  MUD  AND  GLORY 

slip  from  glory  to  glory,  less  aware,  it  seems,  of 
historic  grandeur  than  of  serene  gladness  in  im- 
placable duty.  They  are  picturesque  because 
nature  will  have  it  so,  but  without  any  romanti- 
cism or  sense  of  posing  —  officers  hardly  to  be 
distinguished  from  privates  by  vague,  soiled 
stripes  —  all  the  men  enveloped  in  a  halo  of 
splendor  above  anything  known  to  ordinary 
humanity. 

The  pugnacious  pipe  or  the  sportive  cigarette 
hinders  their  expression  of  any  personal  reflection. 
Only  their  eyes  are  animate,  and  these  express 
things  which  cannot  be  told  in  words  lest  they  be 
profaned.  The  line  of  their  lip  is  youthful  under 
a  silky  moustache  or  firm  with  age  under  gray 
brush.  But  the  fire  of  their  look,  framed  in  their 
dark  helmets,  leaps  out  with  quiet  intensity  to 
meet  the  tragic  unknown  that  no  longer  can  bring 
surprise.  They  are  our  soldiers  of  the  year  II 
who  are  following  the  Biblical  column  of  fire. 
They  see  something.  They  go  to  it.  Ashamed 
of  my  humility,  I  should  like  to  find  words  to  say 
to  them.  But,  were  I  a  poet,  they  would  have  no 
need  of  hearkening  to  me,  since  the  greatest 
beauty  of  man  lies  in  them,  and  since,  unwitting 
[  viii  ] 


A  TRIBUTE  TO  SOLDIERS  OF  FRANCE 

of  utterance,  which  at  best  seems  inept,  these  men 
live  on  the  summits  of  life. 

And  the  "  old  classes  "  who  prosaically  break 
stone  at  the  side  of  the  road  or  work  with  the 
shovel,  the  pickaxe,  the  broom,  making  the  toilette 
of  the  road  of  triumph,  what  an  injustice  if  I  did 
not  mention  them !  How  does  it  happen  that  the 
noblest  soldier  is  always  the  one  I  chance  upon? 
That  is  the  miracle  of  these  men;  and  when  I  tell 
you  that  on  the  battlefield  of  the  Aisne  the  "  old 
classes,"  not  granting  that  it  was  necessary  to 
wait  to  the  end  of  the  battle  before  beginning  to 
clear  and  rebuild,  went  off  into  the  hottest  of  the 
action  to  fill  up  craters,  to  break  stones,  to  place 
tree-trunks  and  beams  during  heavy  fire,  without 
vouchsafing  the  Boche  a  single  hasty  gesture,  so 
that  they  might  the  more  quickly  open  the  way 
for  revictualling  and  for  the  bringing  up  of  artil- 
lery —  when  I  tell  you  this,  you  will  admit  that 
they  do  not  deserve  a  lesser  greeting  than  their 
"  young  ones." 

And  the  infantryman  —  could  I  commit  the 
supreme  injustice  of  forgetting  him?  That  is 
impossible  when  one  has  gone  over  the  battle- 
ground where  he  has  taken  possession  of  the  bur- 
[ix] 


COVERED  WITH  MUD  AND  GLORY 

rows  of  the  Boches,  among  heaps  of  munition 
material,  cases  of  supplies,  an  Indescribable 
debris,  abandoned  with  their  dead  and  wounded 
in  the  haste  of  a  desperate  fight.  What  we  cannot 
understand  is  that  our  little  poilu  can  pass  so 
quickly  from  the  apathy  of  the  trench  to  the  ex- 
treme fury  of  the  attack,  and  then  from  the  vio- 
lence of  the  offensive  to  the  calm  smile  of  a  victory 
of  which  his  modesty  seems  to  say:  "  It  was  as 
easy  as  all  that.'* 

I  did  not  hear  a  single  boast,  or  see  a  disagree- 
able act,  or  hear  a  word  that  sounded  false.  Like 
a  good-hearted  proprietor  returning  home,  they 
took  possession  of  the  shelters  of  the  Boche  so 
hurriedly  abandoned.  Here  can  be  found  the 
comforts  of  war,  if  these  two  words  can  be  spoken 
together.  The  men  talk  in  groups  at  the  openings 
of  the  underground  passages,  camouflaged  by  the 
enemy  himself.  The  indifference  of  their  atti- 
tudes, the  ease  of  their  familiar  conversation,  in 
which  there  mingle  no  bragging  (though  this  is 
the  place  for  it),  are  more  characteristic  of  the 
situation  of  some  simple  bourgeois  who  have  hap- 
pened to  meet  on  Sunday  in  the  street.  A  major 
begs   my  pardon   for  wearing   a   collared  shirt, 

[x] 


A  TRIBUTE  TO  SOLDIERS  OF  FRAiNCE 

which  Is  not  perfectly  "  regular  "  at  an  official 
review.  Messengers  pass,  throwing  out  a  word 
or  making  a  simple  sign.  Officers  step  up  for 
brief  explanations.  A  half-salute,  a  nodding  of 
the  head  —  it  is  over.  Not  far  away,  on  the  road 
cut  Into  the  rock,  where  the  stupid  Boche,  after 
our  passings,  sends  his  Impotent  shells,  our  always 
young  "  old  classes  "  hang  on  to  the  slopes  In 
order  to  see  the  projectile  fall,  and  make  uncom- 
plimentary remarks  about  the  gunner.  Then 
work  is  resumed  till  the  next  warning  whistles  In 
the  air. 

It  Is  after  twelve  and  we  have  not  yet  dined. 
A  big  devil  of  a  Moroccan  colonel,  with  a  Don 
Quixotic  face  under  an  extraordinary  headpiece, 
invites  us  to  his  P.  C.  (post  of  command),  where 
the  Boche  has  left  useful  bits  of  installation.  A 
black  hole  Is  two  steps  away  from  us.  We  go 
down  Into  the  ground,  over  abrupt  descents,  and 
there  we  are  protected  from  the  "  marmites  "  In 
a  dark  corridor  lit  by  candles  stuck  into  the 
mouths  of  German  gas  masks.  We  sit  down  on 
anything  handy  (I  even  have  the  favor  of  a 
chair),  before  a  board  which  also  serves  as  the 
colonel's  bed,  while  arms  whose  body  remains 
[xi] 


COVERED  WITH  MUD  AND  GLORY 

Invisible  serve  us  with  dishes  not  to  be  disdained 
by  a  gourmand.  How  did  they  get  there?  I 
cannot  undertake  to  explain  that.  The  walk  In 
the  open  air,  the  tragic  nature  of  the  place,  the 
joy  in  land  reconquered,  no  doubt  all  lend  particu- 
lar spice  to  the  comradeship  of  these  men  who 
forget  that  they  have  done  great  deeds  as  soon 
as  they  have  done  them.  Pictures  and  illustrated 
pages  tremble  in  the  fluttering  candle-lights, 
among  them  a  Victorious  France,  drawn  by  the 
pencil  of  the  colonel.  A  telephonist  measures  out 
mouthfuls  of  conversation  to  a  military  post  that 
sends  in  observations  and  receives  ours.  Long 
time  or  short  time,  for  here  hours  and  minutes 
are  alike,  here  Is  a  magic  that  ends  too  soon.  We 
must  go. 

The  colonel  would  have  been  perfect  if  he  had 
not  made  it  a  point  of  honor  to  avoid  all  danger 
for  his  civilian  visitor.  In  the  morning  he  had 
tried  to  forbid  me  a  flying  visit  to  the  marvellous 
castle  of  Pinion,  but  he  finally  understood  that 
even  a  soldier  has  to  be  born  a  civilian  and  that 
he  should  not  therefore  scorn  his  own  origin. 
The  trip  was  accomplished  without  the  shadow  of 
an  incident,  but  the  colonel,  who  insists  more 
[xii] 


A  TRIBUTE  TO  SOLDIERS  OF  FRANCE 

than  ever  on  the  rights  and  privileges  of  the  uni- 
form, will  not  permit  me  to  return  until  the  Boche 
cannon  favors  us  with  a  little  respite.  The  Boche 
can  hardly  make  up  his  mind  to  such  a  favor; 
hence,  several  false  departures  and  changings  of 
direction.  Finally,  the  colonel  lets  us  go  under 
the  guard  of  a  robust  sergeant-major,  who  even 
yesterday  magnificently  led  his  stretcher-bearers 
to  the  aid  of  the  wounded  under  the  hottest  fire. 
Although  he  is  not  of  the  youngest  class,  he  has 
refused  to  be  retired  from  the  front.  He  is 
spoken  of  only  with  respect,  I  might  say  admira- 
tion. "  He  goes  everywhere."  He  is  fine,  genial 
company.  After  many  necessary  little  zigzags, 
a  walk  that  is  not  very  strenuous  and  very  soon 
over,  I  left  the  brave  sergeant,  whom  I  shall 
always  remember. 

I  cannot  finish  this  inconsequent  account  with- 
out speaking  of  the  touching  ceremony  which  I 
witnessed  at  Soissons,  the  terribly  bombarded. 
Since  the  victory  of  Malmaison  the  city  has  been 
out  of  range.  But  when  you  have  seen  the  build- 
ing of  the  sub-prefect  tottering  with  shell-holes, 
a  building  that  neither  the  sub-prefect  nor  his  wife 
has  left,  the  shortest  walk  will  tell  you  a  long  tale. 
[  xiii  ] 


COVERED  WITH  MUD  AND  GLORY 

The  general,  who  is  a  good  fellow  —  I  take 
pleasure  in  saying  that  —  had  proposed  to  show 
me  something,  and  so  here  I  am  in  a  public 
square  having  the  imposing  silhouette  of  the 
cathedral  as  a  background.  From  the  height  of 
the  great  towers,  with  their  wide  wounds,  history, 
attentive,  looks  down.  Everywhere  there  is  a  for- 
midable display  of  cannon  taken  from  the  enemy. 
There  are  piles  of  them,  heaps  of  them.  There 
are  too  many  to  count,  together  with  a  bewilder- 
ing mass  of  trench  instruments  of  all  sorts.  Can 
you  believe  it?  They  do  not  hold  the  eye.  How 
is  that  possible?  Because  on  the  sidewalk  oppo- 
site, in  splendid  alignment,  is  the  gorgeous  gather- 
ing of  soldiers  with  medals  and  decorations  who 
have  captured  these  things.  Ah !  They  hold  the 
eye !  There  they  are,  with  all  sorts  of  faces  and 
from  all  branches  of  the  service,  with  the  flag 
which  they  have  followed  into  battle  and  which 
now  must  be  present  at  their  honor. 

To  be  quite  honest,  the  group  is  not  so  aesthetic 
as  a  picture  of  Versailles.  These  men  are  too 
great  for  much  ceremony.  With  a  jerky  step 
the  general  advances;  his  brusque  movements 
reveal  the  homage  of  his  emotion  before  the 
[xiv] 


A  TRIBUTE  TO  SOLDIERS  OF  FRANCE 

bravest  of  the  brave.  Slowly  he  passes  along  the 
line,  while  the  adjutant  reads  in  a  stirring  voice 
the  high  deeds  in  the  citations.  And  the  military- 
medal  quivers  on  each  noble  breast  at  the  recol- 
lection of  the  tremendous  drama  lived  through. 
And  the  general  utters  a  comrade's  congratula- 
tion, shakes  a  friendly  hand,  expresses  a  good 
wish.  Then  the  flag  salutes,  while  the  drums 
rumble  in  these  hearts  drunk  with  love  of  country. 
At  the  greeting  of  the  flag  of  the  glorious  Chas- 
seurs, a  rag  torn  by  machine  guns,  something  gets 
hold  of  our  throats,  which  the  trumpets  hurt  with 
their  sublime  peal.  If  there  are  more  beautiful 
spectacles,  I  do  not  know  them.  One  minute  here 
is  worth  years. 

And  I  have  said  nothing  of  the  people  about, 
silent,  all  in  mourning,  their  souls  full  of  tears, 
which  finally  brim  over.  Men,  hats  off,  motion- 
less as  statues,  proud  of  becoming  great  through 
their  children.  Mothers,  with  seared  faces,  su- 
perbly stoic  under  the  eye  of  the  greater  maternity 
of  the  great  country.  The  children  in  the  ecstasy 
of  feeling  about  them  something  greater  than 
they  can  understand,  but  already  certain  that  they 
will  understand  some  day  this  immortal  hour. 
[xv] 


COVERED  WITH  MUD  AND  GLORY 

And  not  a  cry,  not  a  word  sounds  in  the  air,  noth- 
ing but  the  great  silence  of  the  courage  of  all  of 
them.  Then  everyone  goes  away,  firm  and  erect, 
to  a  glorious  destiny.  In  every  heart  La  France 
has  passed. 

Note.  —  A  few  days  before  M.  Clemenceau,  premier  of  France, 
was  called  to  power,  he  returned  from  a  visit  to  the  Aisne  front  and 
published  his  impressions  in  his  paper,  L'Homme  Enchaine,  now 
L'Homme  Libre.  When  he  became  premier,  U Illustration  repub- 
lished this  "Tribute  to  the  Soldiers  of  France,"  and  it  has  since  been 
widely  reproduced  and  admired  throughout  France.  The  present 
English  translation  by  Harry  Kurz  was  printed  in  the  New  York 
Tribune,  to  the  editors  of  which  grateful  acknowledgment  is  made  for 
permission  to  reprint  here. 


PREFACE 

SERGEANT-MAJOR  GEORGES  LA- 
FOND,  of  the  Territorial  Hussars,  the 
author  of  this  book,  was  in  South  America  at 
the  time  of  mobilization.  He  returned  to  France 
as  soon  as  possible  and  joined  his  corps,  but  asked 
to  be  assigned  as  intelligence  officer  to  the  ma- 
chine-gun sections  of  the  .  .  .  first  regiment  of 
Colonial  Infantry. 

With  this  picked  corps,  which  has  been  deci- 
mated several  times,  he  took  part  in  the  engage- 
ments in  Champagne,  on  the  Somme,  at  Lihons, 
Dompierre,  Herbecourt,  and  notably  in  the  days 
from  the  first  to  the  fifth  of  July,  where  the 
regiment  earned  its  second  citation  and  received 
the  fourragere. 

Lafond  was  discharged  after  the  battles  of 
Maisonnette,  and  wrote  this  book  of  recollec- 
tions in  the  hospital  at  Abbeville,  and  afterwards 
at  Montpellier,  where  he  had  to  undergo  a  severe 
operation. 


PREFACE 

Sergeant-Major  Lafond's  narrative  makes  no 
claim  to  literary  pretension,  but  it  is  simply  a  col- 
lection of  actual  occurrences.  It  is  a  series  of 
short  narratives  which  give  the  life  of  a  company 
of  machine  gunners  from  the  day  of  its  formation 
to  the  hour  when  it  was  so  decimated  that  it  had 
to  be  reorganized  with  men  from  other  corps. 

What  pictures  the  following  titles  call  to  mind : 
"  A  Reconnaissance  in  the  Fog,"  ''  The  Aero- 
plane," "  Our  First  Engagement,"  "  '  We  Have 
Taken  a  Picket  Post,'  "  "  The  Attack,"  "  The 
Echelon,"  "  A  Water  Patrol  "  !  No  man  who  has 
lived  at  the  front  and  has  taken  part  in  an  attack 
will  fail  to  recognize  the  accuracy  of  these  narra- 
tives and  to  experience,  as  well,  emotion,  enthu- 
siasm, and  pride  in  having  been  among  "  those 
who  were  there." 

This  record  of  adventure  was  very  successful 
when  it  appeared  in  the  Petit  Parisien,  and  I  feel 
sure  that  it  will  be  successful  in  book  form.  I 
beg  Sergeant-Major  Georges  Lafond  to  accept 
my  hearty  congratulations  on  his  fine  talent  and 
his  bravery. 

Maurice  Barres, 
of  the  French  Academy. 


CONTENTS 

Chapter  ^^^^ 

I  The  Search  for  My  Company    ...  i 

II  The  Quartermaster's  Billets    ...  n 

III  The  Echelon 21 

IV  The  Song  of  the  Machine  Gun    .    .  31 
V  A  Reconnaissance  in  the  Fog  ...  47 

VI  Our  First  Engagement 5^ 

VII  Easter  Eggs 7^ 

VIII  The  Aeroplane §9 

IX  Days  in  Cantonment 103 

X  An  Ordinary  Fatigue  Party  ....  122 

XI  With  Music i35 

XII  "We  Have  Taken  a  Picket  Post"  .  148 

XIII  A  Night  Convoy 164 

XIV  The  Songs  of  the  Homeland.    ...  175 
XV  A  Water  Patrol 188 

XVI  A  Commander i99 

XVII  The  Attack 217 

XVIII  With  Orders 232 

XIX  A  Wreath      250 

XX  Discharged 261 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

"He's  Hit,"  Sergeant  Lace  Cries  suddenly,  page 

And    indeed    He    Is    Hit Frontispiece 

Remains  of  Villages  near  the  Lines    ...  36 

A  PoiLU 56 

A  SINISTER    Grumbling    Seemed   to   Shatter 

the  Fog no 

The  front  line  Trench 154 

A  Commandant's  Post 166 

The    least    dangerous    Passage    Is    the    un- 
protected Ground 186 

The  Attack 226 


Note. —  These  photographs  are  all  copyrighted  by 
International  Fibn  Sernjice^  Inc. 


COVERED  WITH  MUD  AND  GLORY 


COVERED  WITH  MUD 
AND  GLORY 

CHAPTER    I 

THE   SEARCH    FOR   MY    COMPANY 

I  REMEMBER  the  exact  date  and  I  have 
reason  to,  for  on  that  Monday,  February 
fifteenth,  I  joined  the  second  company  of  machine 
guns  of  the  .  .  .  first  Colonials  at  the  front. 
It  was  snowing  and  the  fields  of  Picardy  were  one 
vast  white  carpet  on  which  the  auto-trucks  traced 
a  multitude  of  black  lines  to  the  accompaniment 
of  pyrotechnics  of  mud. 

Two  days  before  I  had  left  my  depot  in  a  small 
garrison  town  in  the  center  of  Provence,  which 
lay  smiling  in  the  sun  and  already  bedecked  with 
the  first  flowers  of  spring.  At  Lyons  I  found 
rain,  at  Saint- Just-en-Chaussee,  snow,  and  I  got 
off  the  train  in  a  sea  of  mud. 

In  the  dim  light  of  a  February  dawn,  the 
station  at  Villers  appeared  to  be  encumbered  with 

[I] 


COVERED  WITH  MUD  AND  GLORY 

the  supplies  of  half-a-dozen  regiments.  My  car 
was  high  on  its  wheels  and  at  the  end  of  the  train 
farthest  from  the  unloading  platform.  At  the 
other  end  of  the  platform  near  the  entrance  to 
the  station,  I  found  a  rolling  bridge  for  unload- 
ing animals,  but  it  was  useless  to  ask  those  busy 
people  to  help  me  push  this  weighty  contrivance 
to  the  car. 

So  I  looked  at  Kiki  —  Kiki  is  my  horse  —  who 
had  but  recently  arrived  from  Canada  and  was 
scarcely  broken  after  his  two  months'  training 
at  the  depot. 

"  Kiki,  mon  vieux,''^  I  said,  *'  you  must  make 
up  your  mind  to  do  as  I  did  and  jump.  Remem- 
ber that  you  are  a  Canadian,  and  every  self- 
respecting  Canadian  should  know  how  to  jump 
as  soon  as  he  is  born." 

I  delivered  this  kind  invitation  from  the  ground 
and  I  urged  him  on  by  pulling  on  the  reins.  Kiki 
was  not  at  all  frightened.  He  came  to  the  edge 
of  the  car,  snuffed  the  air,  carefully  calculated 
the  distance,  bent  lightly  on  his  hind  legs,  and 
jumped  to  the  ground  without  a  flutter. 

"  The  .  .  .  first  Colonials?  "  the  military  com- 
missioner said  to  me.     "  I  don't  know  exactly, 

[2] 


THE   SEARCH    FOR   MY   COMPANY 

but  you  '11  find  it  somewhere  along  twenty  or 
thirty  miles  to  the  east  at  Proyart  or  Harbon- 
nieres,  or  perhaps  at  Morcourt.  There  's  a  little 
of  it  all  about  there." 

So  Kiki  and  I,  in  the  morning  mist,  went  slowly 
along  roads  covered  with  snow  and  grease  in 
search  of  the  second  company  of  machine  guns. 

Proyart  is  a  small  village  hidden  in  a  hollow 
of  this  plain  of  Picardy  which  from  a  distance 
resembled  a  well-stretched,  vast  white  carpet. 
Here  the  villages  are  sheltered  in  depressions  and 
one  only  sees  them  when  he  reaches  the  level  of 
their  steeples.  It  was  at  Proyart  that  altogether 
accidentally,  thanks  to  a  sign  about  as  large  as 
my  hand  and  already  partly  rubbed  out,  I  found 
the  staff  of  the  .  .  .  first  Colonials. 

An  orderly  condescended  to  move  a  few  steps 
and  point  out  to  me  at  the  end  of  the  street  to 
the  right  the  billets  of  the  quartermaster  of  the 
second  company  of  machine  guns. 

There  was  a  court  —  a  sewer,  as  a  matter  of 
fact  —  which  was  completely  filled  by  a  pool  of 
filth  which  left  only  a  narrow  passage  of  a  foot 
or  two  by  each  wall.  In  a  corner  was  a  tangle 
of  barrels,  farm  implements,  and  broken  boxes, 

[3] 


COVERED  WITH  MUD  AND  GLORY 

and  on  that  a  mass  of  wet  straw,  manure,  snow, 
and  mud. 

At  the  farther  end  of  the  court  was  a  small 
door  with  glass  panels  —  with  a  glass  panel  — 
for  only  one  remained.  The  spaces  were  con- 
veniently filled  by  thick  layers  of  the  Petit  Pari- 
sien,  Matin,  he  Journal,  Echo  de  Paris,  the  great 
dailies  which  arrived  intermittently  at  Proyart. 

I  went  in.  Kiki  wanted  to  go  in,  too,  but  the 
door  was  low  and  he  was  carrying  his  complete 
pack.  Inside  was  a  ruined  kitchen.  The  chim- 
ney still  remained,  and  there  was  a  large  table 
made  of  a  door  stretched  on  two  barrels,  which 
took  up  the  middle  of  the  room.  In  each  corner, 
against  the  walls,  were  improvised  beds,  straw 
mattresses,  and  heaps  of  clothes  under  which  I 
surmised  there  were  bodies. 

*'  The  door,  nom  de  Dieu !  "  shouted  a  voice. 

In  front  of  the  chimney  was  a  man  struggling 
desperately  with  a  fire.  The  watersoaked  wood 
refused  to  burn,  and  the  man  flooded  it  with  shoe 
grease,  which,  when  it  melted,  threw  out  jets  of 
yellow  flame  and  filled  the  room  with  a  pungent 
odor  and  smoke. 

"  The  door,  the  door !  What  did  he  tell  you  I  '' 
[4] 


THE   SEARCH    FOR   MY   COMPANY 

cried  In  different  tones  voices  which  came  from 
the  heaps  of  covers. 

It  was  true  that  a  breath  of  cold  air  and  a 
swirl  of  snow  had  rushed  into  the  smoky  dark 
hall  when  I  came  in.  I  shut  the  door  and 
asked, 

"  Is  this  the  second  company  of  machine 
guns?  " 

"What  of  it?  What  do  you  want  of  the 
second  machine  guns  ?  It 's  here.  And  after  that 
what  do  you  want ?  Papers,  again?  Zut!  They 
have  no  Idea  of  bothering  people  at  this  hour. 
Leave  them  on  the  table  and  come  back  in  half 
an  hour." 

This  diatribe  emanated  from  a  pile  thicker 
than  the  rest,  in  the  chimney  corner.  At  this 
obsession  of  papers,  of  lists  to  be  signed,  I  guessed 
he  was  a  sergeant  or  a  quartermaster,  and  I 
kept  on: 

*'  Don't  worry.  There  are  no  papers.  I  am 
the  mounted  intelligence  officer  attached  to  this 
company." 

"  M  .  .  . !  "  shouted  several  voices  in  the  four 
corners  of  the  room,  while  I  watched  arms  and 
muffled  heads  rise  up. 

[5] 


COVERED  WITH  MUD  AND  GLORY 

"  Mince!  So  we  have  a  mounted  officer  now! 
Wonderful  I  They  're  certainly  fitting  us  out  in 
style.  What  won't  they  do  next?  Then,  that's 
all  right,  vieux.  Come  on  in  and  let  us  see  you. 
And  you  have  a  horse?  Where  is  your  horse? 
Bring  him  in;  make  him  come.  It  must  be  cold 
out  in  the  court." 

The  first  burst  of  curiosity  soon  passed,  the 
torrent  of  words  exhausted  itself,  and  the  forms 
which  had  stirred  a  moment  ago  quieted  down 
anew.  A  more  peremptory  voice  now  started  in 
shouting  invectives  at  the  orderly  who  was  still 
struggling  with  the  rebellious  wood. 

''  Say,  Dedouche.  Do  you  think  we  're  Boche 
sausages  that  you  want  to  smoke  us  out?  Don't 
you  know  anything?  We  '11  have  to  wear  glasses. 
That 's  no  way  to  light  a  fire.  What  did  you 
learn  when  you  were  a  boy?  " 

"  The  grease  is  full  of  water  and  won't  even 
burn." 

"  Use  the  oil  In  the  lamp,  then." 

The  first  result  of  the  immediate  execution  of 
this  order  was  to  fill  the  room  with  a  black  stifling 
cloud  which  was  enough  to  make  one  weep.  In 
the  middle  of  this  smoke  the  orderly,  Dedouche, 

[6] 


THE  SEARCH   FOR   MY   COMPANY 

coughed,  spat,  sputtered,  while  I  heard  him 
storm : 

"  In  God's  name,  how  that  stinks !  How  that 
stinks !  " 

The  quartermaster,  doubtless  on  account  of  the 
smoke  and  the  smell,  now  deigned  to  get  up.  He 
was  a  young  man,  large,  light  complexioned,  and 
his  cheeks  were  red  and  fat.  He  had  just  a  sus- 
picion of  a  moustache.  His  ears  were  hidden 
in  a  cap  which  had  wings  that  pulled  down.  One 
could  scarcely  see  his  eyes  they  were  so  puffed 
out  with  sleep  and  smoke. 

"  So  you  're  the  intelligence  officer?  Sit  down. 
Dedouche,  make  a  cup  of  coffee.  I  '11  make  a 
note  of  your  transfer,  and  then  you  can  try  to 
find  a  place  for  yourself  until  the  lieutenant  comes. 
Oh,  you  've  time,  you  know.  He  never  comes 
before  ten  o'clock." 

''  But,  Quartermaster,  it 's  nearly  ten  now." 

"  No,  you  're  joking.  Ten  o'clock.  My  word, 
it 's  true.  Oh,  there,  get  up  all  of  you.  It 's  ten 
o'clock.  And  that  salaud  of  a  Dedouche  has  n't 
lighted  the  fire.  Come,  come,  hurry  up,  the  lieu- 
tenant Is  coming!  " 

And  as  though  this  were  the  magic  word,  the 
[7] 


COVERED  WITH  MUD  AND  GLORY 

lieutenant  came  in,  leaving  the  door  wide  open 
behind  him.  It  was  time;  they  were  almost 
suffocated. 

The  lieutenant  was  a  large  man,  thin  and  well 
set  up.  His  bearing  indicated  resolution.  His 
brown  hair  was  cut  very  short,  accordin-^  to  the 
regulations.  A  close-cropped  black  moustache 
streaked  his  sunburned  face.  The  general  effect 
of  his  personality  was  that  of  a  man  cool  and 
headstrong. 

*'  Oh,  he  has  the  coolness  of  a  Colonial,"  the 
machine  gunners  repeated  ad  nauseam. 

"Isn't  there  any  way  to  get  you  up?"  ex- 
claimed the  lieutenant.  "  You  ought  to  be 
ashamed  of  yourselves.     It 's  after  ten  o'clock." 

Then  he  saw  me  through  the  cloud  of  smoke 
and  questioned  me  with  a  glance.  The  quarter- 
master broke  in  before  I  could  reply, 

"  It 's  the  mounted  intelligence  officer.  Lieu- 
tenant." 

"Oh,  good!  .  .  .  Good  morning.  .  .  . 
Welcome." 

He  extended  a  large,  vigorous  hand  which  con- 
firmed the  first  impression  of  his  personality  — 
frankness  and  will. 

[8] 


THE   SEARCH    FOR   MY   COMPANY 

"Have  you  found  a  place  for  your  horse? '^ 
he  asked. 

"  Not  yet,  Lieutenant.    I  Ve  just  come." 

I  pointed  out  Kiki  through  the  door  to  the 
courtyard  where  he  waited,  stoically  and  calmly, 
under  the  snow.  Perhaps  he  remembered  the 
times  not  long  ago  that  he  waited  for  hours  at 
the  doors  of  the  ranch  under  more  wintry  winds. 
Perhaps  he  imagined  that  he  was  still  waiting  for 
the  rough  Canadian  pioneer  who  tarried  for  long 
discussions  about  business,  warming  himself  the 
while  with  whiskey.  At  any  rate  Kiki  waited 
stoically  and  quietly.  He  scarcely  condescended 
to  welcome  us  by  a  glance  when  I  presented  him 
to  the  lieutenant,  who  stroked  his  head. 

"  This  is  Kiki,  Lieutenant.  I  don't  know  his 
real  name,  for  his  record  bore  only  his  number, 
but  that  fits  him  and  he  seems  to  like  it.  He  is 
a  Canadian,  seven  years  old,  thin  but  strong,  very 
gentle  and  a  good  jumper." 

"  He  's  pretty.  Come  along.  We  '11  put  him 
in  with  mine.  They  '11  get  along  all  right  to- 
gether." 

So  I  took  Kiki  by  the  bridle  and  the  lieutenant 
and  I  went  along  talking,  until  we  reached  an 

[9] 


COVERED  WITH  MUD  AND  GLORY 

improvised  stable  where  the  officer's  horse  and 
his  groom  were  quartered. 

Zebre  was  a  great  brown  horse,  with  a  huge, 
calm  face.  Everything  here  certainly  gives  an 
impression  of  calmness. 

I  took  leave  of  the  officer  for  the  time  being 
and  returned  to  the  quartermaster's,  where  a 
steaming  soup  and  scalding  coffee  were  waiting 
for  me.  It  was  nearly  noon  and  I  had  eaten  noth- 
ing hot  for  the  last  forty-eight  hours.  It  was 
four  above  zero  and  it  was  time. 


[lo] 


CHAPTER    II 

THE    quartermaster's   BILLETS 

I  WAS  seated  under  a  shed  of  loose  boards  in 
the  courtyard  of  Cantonment  No.  77,  and 
just  tasting  some  excellent  macaroni  which  the 
cook  had  warmed  up  for  me,  when  Dedouche, 
the  orderly,  came  to  find  me. 

"  Say,  Sergeant,"  he  asked,  "  are  you  the  in- 
telligence officer?  " 

The  title  of  ^'  sergeant  "  sounds  strange  in  the 
ears  of  a  cavalryman,  and  I  felt  a  little  hurt  in 
my  esprit  de  corps;  but  I  at  once  answered  De- 
douche's  summons,  for  the  orderly,  in  spite  of 
being  at  the  beck  and  call  of  everyone,  enjoys 
a  certain  prestige.  He  has  a  real  importance, 
small  though  it  be,  but  an  importance  which  car- 
ries weight  when  he  gives  his  opinion  in  the  dis- 
cussions of  the  "  little  staff  "  of  the  company. 

This  staff  is  the  household  of  the  quarter- 
master's billets.  With  some  slight  differences  it 
is  in  general  composed  of  the  quartermaster- 
[II] 


COVERED  WITH  MUD  AND  GLORY 

sergeant,  lacking  a  sergeant-major  which  com- 
panies of  machine  guns  rarely  have,  a  quarter- 
master-corporal, an  adjutant  and  a  mess  corporal. 
I  was  admitted  to  the  honor  of  taking  part  in 
the  discussions  of  the  staff  on  account  of  the 
detached  and  unusual  character  of  my  duties. 

But  Dedouche  was  summoning  me.  I  turned 
and  observed  him  leisurely.  Dedouche  is  an  ex- 
cellent fellow.  Without  even  knowing  him  one 
would  guess  it  at  first  glance.  He  is  good- 
natured,  never  in  a  hurry,  no  matter  how  urgent 
his  errand,  and  indifferent  alike  to  blov/s  and 
invectives.  He  smiles  under  torrents  of  abuse 
and  threats  of  the  most  terrible  punishments,  and 
does  his  duty  as  man  of  all  work  silently.  In  a 
word,  he  possesses  all  the  qualities  inherent  in 
his  duty.  He  is  tall  and  spare;  his  face  is  beard- 
less and  sanctimonious;  his  eyes  smile,  but  they 
look  far  away  under  his  great  round  glasses  with 
their  large  rims.  All  in  all  Dedouche  looks  like 
a  lay  brother.  To  complete  the  illusion,  when 
he  talks  he  has  a  habit  of  thrusting  his  hands 
into  the  large  sleeves  of  his  jacket  and  lowering 
his  head  to  look  over  his  spectacles.  In  civil  life 
Dedouche  was  an  assistant  in  a  pharmacy  in  one 

[12] 


THE    QUARTERMASTER'S    BILLETS 

of  the  large  provincial  cities.  He  knows  the  art 
of  making  up  learned  formulae.  His  long  slim 
fingers  manage  the  most  fragile  things  with  skill, 
and  his  grave  voice  is  accustomed  to  the  mezzo- 
tints of  the  laboratory. 

"  Yes,"  I  answered  at  last,  "  it  is  L" 

"  The  lieutenant  wants  you." 

I  gulped  down  my  plate  of  macaroni  in  two 
mouthfuls,  swallowed  the  coffee  which  the  cook, 
already  attentive  to  my  wants,  held  out  to  me, 
and  followed  Dedouche  the  two  hundred  yards 
which  separated  us  from  the  billets. 

Two  hundred  yards  is  nothing,  and  yet  It  Is 
a  world.  In  less  time  than  it  takes  to  tell  It  I 
learned  a  mass  of  things  from  Dedouche. 

First,  what  part  of  the  country  we  are  from. 
The  .  .  .  first  Colonials  was  organized  in  the 
South.  So,  in  the  hope  of  finding  in  each  new- 
comer another  "  countryman,"  Dedouche  asked 
the  new  arrival  at  once, 

"  What  part  of  the  country  are  you  from?  " 

He  had  some  doubt  about  my  reply.    A  Hussar 

of  a  regiment  with  an  unknown  number,  who  had 

given  little  opportunity  to  study  his  accent,  might 

be  a  man  from  the  North  or  the  East.     ^'  One 

[13] 


COVERED  WITH  MUD  AND  GLORY 

never  knows  with  these  cavalrymen,"  he  seemed 
to  say,  "  they  're  so  uncertain."  So  he  changed 
the  form  and  varied  his  traditional  question 
somewhat, 

*'  You  're  not  from  the  South,  by  chance. 
Sergeant?  " 

At  this  repetition  of  his  offense  about  my  title, 
I  thought  that  I  ought  to  slip  in  a  discreet  ob- 
servation, so  I  said, 

''  In  the  cavalry,  my  friend,  the  sergeant  is 
called  '  marechal  des  logis.''  "  And  then  having 
satisfied  my  slightly  offended  esprit  de  corps,  I 
replied,  "  Yes,  mon  vieux,  I  am  from  the  South, 
in  fact  from  the  Mediterranean,  from  L'Herault." 

"  How  things  happen!  "  exclaimed  Dedouche. 
"  I  'm  from  Le  Clapas." 

Le  Clapas  is  the  nickname  given  to  Montpellier 
in  the  territory.  And  at  that  there  came  all  at 
once  a  bewildering  flow  of  words.  Dedouche 
began  to  tell  me,  mixing  it  all  up  in  an  incredible 
confusion,  about  his  birthplace,  his  adventures, 
his  former  regular  occupation,  in  the  depths  of 
a  pharmacy  in  a  small  street  under  the  shadow 
of  the  University,  his  transfer  from  the  auxiliary 
to  active  service,  his  wound  in  Champagne.  All 
[14] 


THE    QUARTERMASTER'S    BILLETS 

this  was  interspersed  with  frequent  exclamations 
and  repetitions,  "  Say,  tell  me,  Marechal,  will 
this  war  ever  be  over?  "  and  then  regrets  for  his 
home  land,  "  Say,  tell  me,  Log'is,  would  n't  it  be 
better  down  there  in  the  good  sun?  " 

In  these  different  attempts  to  get  nearer  to  the 
term  "  marechal  de  loj^isj^^  I  observed  Dedouche's 
obvious  good  will,  but  what  interested  me  most 
was  a  little  advance  knowledge  about  the 
company. 

So  Dedouche  sketched  in  a  few  words  a  picture 
of  it,  which  was  absolutely  accurate,  as  I  was 
able  to  appreciate  later. 

*'  The  lieutenant  is  a  very  chic  type.  No  one 
would  think  to  look  at  him  that  he  is  from  the 
South,  too.  He  appears  cold  and  hard,  like  that, 
but  it's  not  natural;  he  puts  it  on.  He  's  good- 
hearted  at  bottom.  He  's  a  Basque  and  is  n't 
afraid  of  anything.  You  ought  to  have  seen  him 
in  Champagne  at  Massiges.  Oh,  and  then  we 
have  besides  his  fellow  countryman,  Sub-Lieu- 
tenant Delpos,  a  blond.  He's  not  here  now; 
he  's  down  at  Morcourt  with  the  echelon.  He  's 
a  type  too,  not  stuck-up,  but  he  's  agreeable  and 
good-humored. 

[15] 


COVERED  WITH  MUD  AND  GLORY 

"  Oh,  those  in  the  billets,"  Dedouche  sketched 
with  a  vague  wave  of  the  hand,  as  if  to  say  some- 
thing like  this:  "They're  of  no  importance; 
they  're  brothers,  friends,  and  not  worth  talking 
about."  Perhaps  his  gesture  meant  something 
else,  but  that 's  what  I  thought  it  meant. 

And  as  if  he  were  responding  to  my  implied 
question,  he  went  on : 

"  —  there  is  only  the  drummer  who  's  from 
the  South,  too ;  he  's  what  they  call  the  '  quarter- 
master corporal,'  I  don't  know  why.  He  's  a 
good  fellow,  but  he  does  not  talk.  At  least  he 
only  talks  rarely,  and  he  's  from  Marseilles,  too; 
no  one  would  think  it  to  see  him.  He  makes 
me  mad  most  of  the  time. 

"  Oh,  the  rest !  The  corporal  of  infantry  is 
from  Paris.  I  don't  know  him.  He  only  came 
five  or  six  days  ago.  He  has  n't  told  us  anything 
yet;  he  only  sings.  And  what  songs !  Good  God, 
they  're  enough  to  make  one  blush! 

"  The  jiiteux  —  the  adjutant,"  interrupted  De- 
douche,  for  he  rarely  used  slang.  With  the  ex- 
ception of  ''  pinard ''  and  ''  tacot/^  which  have 
become  hallowed  and  have  taken  an  official  place 
even  in  the  most  refined  language  of  the  armies, 
[i6] 


THE    QUARTERMASTER'S    BILLETS 

Dedouche  rarely  used  a  vulgar  or  misplaced  word 
in  his  conversation.  This  was  not  because  he  was 
opposed  to  it  nor  from  false  modesty,  but  be- 
cause his  occupation  as  a  ''  scientist  "  had  given 
him  the  habit  of  using  good  language. 

"  The  adjutant,"  went  on  Dedouche,  "  he 's 
not  an  adjutant.  He  's  a  brother,  a  father,  a 
friend,  a  man,  what!  Never  a  word  of  anger, 
never  a  punishment,  always  agreeable  and  kind. 
And  in  spite  of  that  he  's  had  a  career.  He  's 
been  in  Morocco,  China,  and  Madagascar,  and 
no  one  knows  where  else.  He  's  been  in  the 
service  eleven  years,  but  you  would  n't  think  It 
to  look  at  him." 

This  running  biography  brought  us  to  the  open 
door  which  framed  the  lieutenant's  tall  figure. 

"  Say,  Margis  "  (the  lieutenant  knew  his  mili- 
tary terminology  and  this  abbreviation  was  not 
without  zest),  "are  you  rested  from  your 
journey?  " 

"  I  was  n't  tired.  Lieutenant." 

"  How  about  your  horse?  " 

"  No  more  than  I  was.      Do  you  think  that 
after  three  days  stretched  out  on  the  straw  in 
his  car,  without  moving  ...    ?  " 
[17] 


COVERED  WITH  MUD  AND  GLORY 

"  Then,  if  you  are  willing,  we  '11  both  go  to  the 
echelon." 

*'  All  right.  Lieutenant." 

A  question  must  have  framed  itself  on  my  face, 
for  he  added  almost  at  once: 

"  Yes,  the  echelon,  the  fighting  train,  the  cav- 
alry. You  '11  be  more  at  home  there.  We  left 
it  below  at  Morcourt,  seven  or  eight  miles  away, 
on  account  of  the  shells  that  fall  here  sometimes. 
Horses,  you  know,  cost  more  than  men,  so  we 
have  to  economize  them.  It  is  understood,  then? 
We  '11  go  about  noon.  Saddle  both  horses.  Meet 
me  here." 

Then  he  strode  off  and  joined  a  group  of  offi- 
cers who  were  coming  up  the  main  street  of  the 
village  to  the  church. 

Dedouche  was  already  full  of  attention  for 
me  —  just  think  of  a  man  from  home  on  the 
''  little  staff  "  —  and  he  now  burst  forth  eagerly: 

"  Don't  trouble  yourself,  Logis.  I  '11  tell  the 
groom  to  saddle  the  horses  and  bring  them  here." 

The  smoke  still  persisted  in  the  dark,  littered 

confusion  of  the  room,  but  combined  with  it  now 

was   an   odor    of  burnt   grease   mixed  with   the 

moldy  smell  of  a  ragout  with  onions  and  strong 

[i8] 


THE    QUARTERMASTER'S    BILLETS 

cheese.  In  addition,  spread  out  on  the  table,  were 
the  remnants  of  a  meal,  which  had  just  been 
finished,  the  rolls,  the  account  books  and  reports. 

The  quartermaster-corporal,  the  silent  fellow 
from  Marseilles,  Immersed  in  reading  Le  Soleil 
du  Midi,  did  not  even  condescend  to  look  up.  In 
response  to  my  friendly  good-by,  he  let  a  scarcely 
perceptible  "  adieu  "  slip  through  his  lips. 

The  quartermaster  was  stretched  out  on  a  dirty 
mattress  thrown  on  the  ground,  and  juggling  two 
packages  of  English  cigarettes,  while  he  sang  at 
the  top  of  his  lungs  —  and  what  a  voice  he  had! 
—  the  latest  song: 

Mes  amis,  dans  la  vie 
Faut  faire  des  economies 

Les  journaux  vous  Vont  dit. 
C'est  aussi  mon  avis. 

This  intellectual  refrain  must  have  given  him 
extreme  pleasure,  for  he  began  it  again  and  again 
without  any  interruption. 

"  Well,"  I  said,  "  judging  from  the  looks  of 
things,  you  aren't  often  disturbed  here?" 

At  this  the  drummer  cast  me  a  searching  look, 
cold,  disdainful  and  commiserating,  as  much  as 
to  say  to  me, 

[19] 


COVERED  WITH  MUD  AND  GLORY 

"  One  can  see  that  you  Ve  just  come !  " 
As  for  the  quartermaster,  he  replied  to  every- 
thing in  the  repertoire  of  the  Eldorado.    Without 
stopping  his  juggling,  he  shouted  at  me  in  his 
amazing  voice; 

Moi!  je  m'en  fous, 
Je  reste  tranquiVment 
Dans  mon  trout  .  .  . 

He  was  going  on  when  the  infernal  noise  of 
some  aerial  trolley  tore  through  space. 

"  Attention !  "  he  cried,  without  moving  from 
his  mattress.     "  There  's  the  Metro!  " 

Almost  at  the  same  moment,  a  great  shell,  a 
"  310  "  at  least,  burst  in  the  court  of  the  house 
opposite,  demolished  the  roof,  and  crushed  a 
dozen  horses. 

The  adjutant  was  just  crossing  the  street  and 
he  stopped  at  the  door  to  estimate  the  damage. 

"  They  missed  the  steeple  again,"  he  said,  with 
a  disdainful  shrug  for  the  Boche  artillery. 

And  Morin,  the  drummer,  by  way  of  commen- 
tary, without  interrupting  his  reading: 

"  Close  the  door.  If  they  send  any  more  shells, 
that  will  make  a  draft." 

[20] 


CHAPTER    III 

THE    ECHELON 

FROM  Proyart  to  Morcourt  Is  five  miles  by  a 
crossroad  which  in  its  many  curves  and  wind- 
ings cuts  across  trenches,  communication  trenches 
and  barbed  wire. 

The  snow  had  stopped,  but  It  still  covered  the 
ground,  the  trees  and  the  farms  with  its  regular 
white  covering.  The  communication  trenches 
showed  black  on  this  vast  screen. 

The  crows  circled  in  Innumerable  flights  and 
sought  In  vain  for  the  carrion  which  had  been  so 
abundant  for  months  and  which,  to-day,  was 
burled. 

We  went  along,  boot  to  boot,  slowly,  for  the 
roads  were  slippery.  KIkl  wanted  to  dance  about, 
for  the  keen  air  made  him  lively.  But  Zebre's 
sedateness  dismayed  him,  and  KIkl  wisely  ranged 
alongside  and  regulated  the  pace  by  his. 

The  lieutenant  talked  but  little  —  a  few  de- 
tached words,  chopped  phrases,  about  the  com- 

[21] 


COVERED  WITH  MUD  AND  GLORY 

pany,  an  observation  on  the  weather,  a  reflection 
on  the  horses. 

The  road  was  almost  deserted  save  for  a  few 
Territorials,  muffled  in  their  sheepskins,  who 
dragged  along  their  heavy  wooden  shoes  which 
were  made  even  higher  by  a  thick  sole  of  snow. 
From  time  to  time  a  company  wagon,  driven  like 
an  express  train,  grazed  us  with  its  wheels  and 
splashed  us  with  mud. 

Then,  abruptly,  without  having  had  to  climb  the 
slightest  hill,  we  saw  Morcourt,  as  one  sees  sud- 
denly from  the  top  of  a  cliff  the  sea  at  his  feet,  in 
the  midst  of  the  thousand  windings  of  the  Somme, 
of  the  canal  and  the  turf-pits.  Morcourt  is  a  vil- 
lage scarcely  as  large  as  Proyart,  and  like  it  hid- 
den in  a  gully  sheltered  from  the  winds  on  all 
sides,  and  also  like  it,  hidden  under  the  snow. 

A  blacksmith  had  set  up  his  forge  in  the  open 
air  against  the  walls  of  a  tottering  tile-kiln.  All 
around  the  snow  had  melted  in  great  black  puddles 
where  the  waiting  horses  had  pawed  the  ground. 
The  smoke  from  his  fire  rose  red-tinted  and  dark 
in  the  heavy  air  which  seemed  to  muffle  the  ring 
of  the  hammers  on  the  anvil. 

We  come  to  a  stop  before  a  house  nearly  in 

[22] 


THE    ECHELON 

ruins,  whose  tottering  remains  are  a  constant  men- 
ace. A  corporal  rushes  out  —  nimble,  short  and 
thick-set,  a  small  Basque  cap  binding  his  sunburned 
forehead  —  and  then  some  men  come  from  the 
neighboring  stables. 

The  houses  In  the  country  which  were  invaded 
for  a  short  time  and  In  which  troops  have  had 
their  cantonments  for  long  weary  months  all  look 
alike.  Their  doors  and  windows  are  gone,  but 
these  are  replaced  by  tent  canvas. 

The  drivers  of  the  echelon  and  the  war  train 
in  the  machine-gun  companies  are  nearly  always 
sailors,  the  older  classes  of  the  Territorials,  who 
after  many  changes  have  been  assigned  to  the 
Colonial  regiments.  No  one  knows  why,  but  It  is 
probably  because  the  bureaucratic,  stay-at-home 
mental  worker  finds  some  relationship  between  the 
Colonials  and  the  sea.  And  so  they  make  these 
men,  accustomed  to  the  management  of  ships, 
infantrymen,  or  drivers,  or  even  cavalrymen.  But 
with  the  unfailing  readiness  and  the  ingenuity 
of  their  kind  they  make  up  so  much  for  all  that, 
that  far  from  appearing  unready  and  badly 
placed,  one  would  say  that  they  were  veterans  al- 
ready broken  to  all  the  tricks  of  the  trade. 
[23] 


COVERED  WITH  MUD  AND  GLORY 

Their  long  ship  voyages  and  the  necessities  of 
critical  hours  have  taught  them  to  replace  with 
the  means  at  hand  most  things  in  material  exist- 
ence. From  an  old  preserve  box  and  a  branch  of 
a  tree,  squared  and  split  with  a  hatchet,  they  make 
a  strong  and  convenient  table.  With  a  scantling 
and  a  bit  of  wire  lattice  taken  from  a  fence,  they 
make  an  elastic  mattress  which,  covered  with 
straw  and  canvas,  becomes  a  very  comfortable 
bed. 

The  sailor  is  carpenter:  the  hatchet  in  his  hand 
takes  the  place  of  the  most  ingenious  tools  of  the 
joiner ;  painter :  he  has  painted  and  refitted  his  boat 
from  its  tarry  keel  to  the  scroll  work  of  the  bul- 
warks and  the  figures  and  the  beloved  words  they 
put  on  the  stern;  mender:  he  mends  his  sails  and 
nets  artistically;  cook:  during  the  long  days  at  sea 
on  his  frail  craft  with  its  limited  accommodations, 
he  makes  the  most  savory  dishes  from  the  fruits 
of  his  fishing  and  a  few  simple  spices.  His  quali- 
ties and  his  knowledge  are  numerous  and  wide: 
astronomer  and  healer,  and,  as  well,  singer  of 
beautiful  songs  which  cradle  his  thought  at  the 
will  of  the  rhythms,  as  the  sea  rocks  his  boat  at 
the  will  of  the  waves. 

[24] 


THE    ECHELON 

But  In  this  multiplicity  of  talents  he  lacks  that 
of  a  driver,  and  what  is  more,  a  driver  of  a 
machine  gun.  That  is  a  job  which  combines  the 
heavy  and  the  mountain  artillery.  A  machine- 
gun  driver  should  be  able  to  drive  in  the  saddle 
the  leading  team  of  horses  and  put  the  heavy 
caisson  of  ammunition  through  the  most  difficult 
evolutions.  Again,  he  should  be  able  to  drive  on 
foot  the  mule  loaded  with  his  pack-saddle  and 
through  the  most  impossible  and  sometimes  the 
most  dangerous  paths. 

We  had  scarcely  begun  to  swallow  a  cup  of 
thick,  smoking,  regulation  coffee  In  a  room  of  the 
cantonment,  furnished  with  special  skill,  when  Sub- 
Lieutenant  Delpos  —  smart,  carefree,  smiling,  a 
cap  on  the  back  of  his  head  and  a  song  on  his 
lips —  arrived. 

Dedouche's  description  seemed  to  me  to  be  ex- 
act. He  was  indeed  a  very  young  man,  very  quick, 
very  blond  and  very  gay.  He  was  already  an 
officer  when  others  of  his  age  had  scarcely  left 
college;  he  was  already  a  hero  counting  in  his 
active  service  a  thousand  feats  of  prowess  when 
his  rather  sceptical  contemporaries  were  content 
to  read  about  them  In  books.  Open  merriment 
[25] 


COVERED  WITH  MUD  AND  GLORY 

shone  in  his  eyes.  He  had  gained  his  promotion 
in  the  field  far  from  the  stifling  atmosphere  of 
study  halls.  Yesterday  he  was  still  a  sergeant  in 
Madagascar,  Senegal,  and  Morocco;  to-day  he 
is  an  officer  who  has  fought  since  the  beginning 
of  the  Great  War;  to-morrow  he  will  be  a  trainer 
of  men.  He  knows  them  all;  many  are  his  old 
bedfellows  or  companions  of  the  column.  His 
remarks  are  keen  and  unrhetorical  and  they  please 
the  men.  They  love  him  and  fear  him;  they  are 
free  with  him  and  respect  him.  They  know  that 
he  understands  his  trade  perfectly  and  that  they 
can  deceive  him  in  nothing. 

Our  introduction  was  short  and  unceremonious. 
A  man  brought  on  the  table  a  bottle  of  very  sweet 
Moselle  wine,  which  is  christened  at  the  front 
"  Champagne."  It  was  one  of  those  wines  which 
make  up  for  their  qualities  by  such  pompous  ap- 
pellations and  well-intentioned  labels  as  "  Cham- 
pagne de  la  Victory,"  ''  Champagne  de  la  Re- 
venge," "  of  the  Allies,"  ''  of  the  Poilu,"  ''  of 
Glory."  They  are  all  equally  bad,  but  they  make 
a  loud  noise  when  the  cork  is  drawn  and  most  of 
the  wine  flows  away  in  sparkling  foam. 

We  drained  our  cups  to  the  common  health, 
[26] 


THE    ECHELON 

and  to  the  success  and  certain  glory  of  the 
company. 

Then  the  lieutenant,  who  has  memories  of  the 
drama,  said  In  a  voice  which  recalled  the  tones 
of  the  already  classic  Carbon  de  Casteljaloux,  his 
neighbor, 

"  Since  my  company  has,  I  believe,  reached  Its 
full  number,  shall  we  not  show  it  to  the  logis,  if 
you  please?  " 

Under  the  rays  of  an  anemic  sun  which  had 
waited  until  the  hour  of  sunset  before  it  deigned 
to  appear,  we  made  a  brief  visit  to  the  echelon. 

First  the  roll;  five  corporal  muleteers  or 
drivers:  Raynal,  the  owner  of  a  vineyard  in 
Gironde;  LInlers,  a  salesman  of  wines  and  spirits 
and  a  great  elector  In  the  Twelfth  Arrondlsse- 
ment;  Glanais,  Bonecase,  Glorieu,  carpenter, 
vine-grower,  and  farmer  —  and  none  of  them  had 
ever  managed  a  horse  in  his  life. 

And  the  men  —  one  In  fifty  Is  a  cavalryman  — 
but  that  one  Is  perfect.  'He  was  trained  at  the 
cavalry  school  at  Saumur;  trained  horses  and  bred 
them,  so  they  at  once  turned  him  over  to  the  eche- 
lon, where  he  had  to  lead  a  mule  by  the  bridle. 
That,  of  course,  was  a  reproach  to  his  old  trade, 
[27] 


COVERED  WITH  MUD  AND  GLORY 

so  in  default  of  any  other  satisfaction  it  taught 
him  the  philosophy  of  resignation  and  peaceful 
blessedness. 

The  cavalry! 

"  Oh,  the  cavalry,  that 's  been  posing  five  min- 
utes," said  Sub-Lieutenant  Delpos  —  he  was  ex- 
tremely fond  of  that  expression. 

There  were  horses  and  mules  varying  in  age 
from  five  to  seventeen.  They  were  all  sensible, 
settled  down,  their  legs  somewhat  worn  out,  and 
more  accustomed  to  the  hearse  than  to  a  caisson, 
and  more  familiar  with  the  song  of  the  worker 
than  with  the  roar  of  cannon.  They  were  all 
gentle,  only  demanding  oats  and  straw;  some  with 
their  bones  sticking  out  of  their  hides,  while  others 
were  still  sleek  and  shiny  from  their  warm  stables 
and  fresh  straw;  all  unconscious  of  what  awaited 
them  on  the  morrow. 

One  of  the  mules  was  a  veteran,  an  enormous, 
cunning  animal.  His  hair  was  short  and  rough, 
and  in  places  there  were  great  patches  where  the 
hide  showed.  His  skin  was  hung  on  a  project- 
ing framework  of  bones,  and,  although  he  was 
well  fed,  he  was  very  thin  —  with  a  thinness  so 
unyielding  to  rations  that  it  was  impossible  to 
[28] 


THE    ECHELON 

get  him  fat.  His  head  was  that  of  an  epicurean 
philosopher  with  deep  mocking  eyes.  This  was 
Chocolate. 

Chocolate  is  beyond  the  time  when  he  has  an 
age.  The  oldest  soldiers  in  the  regiment  have 
always  known  him,  even  at  Marrakech  and  Rab- 
bat  in  Morocco. 

Chocolate  has  made  many  campaigns  during 
his  active  service  and  he  has  received  several 
wounds  as  well. 

The  story  goes  that  one  day  in  Morocco  Choco- 
late got  loose  from  the  bivouac,  and  started 
browsing  on  the  grass  and  wild  oats  in  an  am- 
buscade —  between  two  fires.  Absolutely  indif- 
ferent to  the  crackling  of  bullets  which  he  had 
known  from  infancy,  he  continued  to  lop  off  the 
plants  until  the  pernicious  bullets  began  to  graze 
his  skin.  Then  he  stretched  out  at  full  length  in 
a  hollow  in  the  sand  and  browsed  on  the  grass 
within  reach  of  his  teeth,  while  he  waited  the 
end  of  the  adventure.  Then  he  went  back  to 
the  bivouac  in  search  of  a  pail  of  water  and  a  bag 
of  oats. 

Now  Chocolate  is  the  file  leader.  He  indicates 
by  his  example  to  the  horses  whom  the  pack-saddle 
[29] 


COVERED  WITH  MUD  AND  GLORY 

galls  that  the  best  way  of  carrying  It  Is  to  avoid 
romping  to  the  right  and  the  left,  shifting  about, 
and  trotting,  In  fact,  all  movements  which  mis- 
place the  saddle  or  wrinkle  the  skin  beneath.  The 
secret  is  to  work  soberly,  slowly  and  at  an  even 
pace. 

Chocolate  belongs  to  a  family  of  mules  which 
ranks  high  In  history.  The  broad,  rounded  backs 
of  his  ancestors  have  borne  debonnair  sovereigns, 
preacher  monks,  magnificent  Sultans  and  Sancho 
Panzas,  baskets  of  vegetables  and  cans  of  milk. 
To-day  Chocolate,  their  descendant,  carries  an 
infernal  Instrument  —  a  machine  gun.  But  what 
matters  that  to  him?  The  road  rolls  on  before 
him  and  he  follows  It.  There  are  oats  at  the 
end,  to-night  or  to-morrow,  what  difference  does 
it  make? 

"  He  is  cool,"  the  drivers  say.  Coolness  is  the 
great  secret  of  the  Colonials. 

Coolness,  indifference  to  danger,  bad  weather, 
adversity,  obstacles,  death  —  no  nervousness,  no 
useless  bursts  of  anger,  no  dangerous  hurrying, 
no  false  starts.  It  is  necessary  to  go  —  they  will 
go  —  they  arrive.    That  is  all. 

[30] 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE  SONG  OF  THE  MACHINE  GUN 

DEDOUCHE  brings  me  a  note  to  sign  for 
on  the  report  book.     It  reads : 

"  The  non-commissioned  officers  will  assemble 
their  sections  in  the  courtyard  of  Cantonment 
No.  77  at  2.30.  Each  gun  captain  will  present 
his  gun.  Service  marching  order,  with  masks  and 
arms." 

I  sign  mechanically  to  please  Dedouche,  who 
thinks  he  is  showing  me  a  special  favor  by  offer- 
ing me  the  first  reading  of  all  orders  and  reports. 
But  this  one  interests  me  but  little,  for  I  have 
neither  arms  nor  guns  to  present.  So  it  is  as  a 
spectator  that  I  am  present  at  the  lieutenant's 
inspection.  This  time  I  shall  see  the  complete 
company. 

I  find  myself  at  the  appointed  hour  at  Canton- 
ment 77. 

One  must  have  lived  in  these  remains  of  vil- 
lages, which  persist  in  standing,  near  the  lines 
[31] 


COVERED  WITH  MUD  AND  GLORY 

to  have  an  exact  idea  of  what  they  are.  In  these 
villages  furious  combats  have  taken  place  in  the 
streets,  from  house  to  house,  and  for  two  years 
they  have  been  occupied  and  overpopulated  —  a 
hamlet  of  one  hundred  and  fifty  inhabitants  often 
serves  as  a  cantonment  for  ten  thousand  men  — 
by  men  of  all  arms  of  the  service,  from  all  regions, 
of  all  colors. 

It  is  not  ruin  in  all  its  tragic  horror  and  majesty. 
It  is  worse. 

It  is  something  which  appears  to  want  to  live, 
but  which  a  latent  leprosy  eats  away.  Often 
there  are  traces  of  shells,  the  splatter  of  bullets, 
the  marks  of  fire;  the  roofs  may  have  fallen  in 
from  the  recent  shelling,  but  even  yet  the  general 
effect  is  that  the  houses  on  the  streets  are  still 
standing. 

The  fronts  of  these  houses,  made  of  straw 
and  mud,  with  only  a  large  door  swinging  on  its 
hinges,  are  whole.  Of  course  the  mud  has  often 
been  scratched  in  long,  leprous  wounds,  and  the 
straw  tumbles  out  leaving  the  bare  skeleton  of 
worm-eaten  wood;  and,  besides,  the  windows  are 
without  the  glass,  which  has  been  broken  to  bits  by 
the  explosion  of  shells,  and  which  is  replaced  by 
[32] 


SONG    OF   THE    MACHINE    GUN 

bits  of  paper  or  by  calendars.  But  the  real  ruin 
is  inside. 

Here  is  the  work  of  the  carelessness  and  negli- 
gence of  the  wandering  multitudes  who  pass  that 
way,  who  arrive  at  evening,  tired,  muddy,  wet, 
who  fall  asleep  on  damp  straw,  cut  to  pieces  and 
crawling  with  vermin,  and  who  go  on  the  next 
day,  or  three  days  later,  leaving  as  a  mark  of 
their  passing  a  greater  stench  and  a  greater 
dilapidation. 

The  ruin  is  inside.  It  is  not  the  beautiful  end- 
ing of  destruction  by  fire,  but  the  slow  death  by 
cancer  which  eats  away,  by  gangrene  which  mounts 
from  the  cattle  sheds  to  the  stable,  from  the  stable 
to  the  barn,  and  from  the  barn  to  the  hearth.  And 
at  last  a  day  comes  when  the  front  alone  is  stand- 
ing on  the  ruin  of  the  annihilated  house,  and  then 
men  who  are  passing  by,  seeing  that  it  is  tottering 
and  dangerous,  cut  it  down  with  blows  of  the 
axe  and  chop  the  wood  into  bits  for  their  little 
needs. 

And  so  these  houses  die:  houses  which  under 
their  humble  appearance  had  great  souls  palpi- 
tating with  life,  where  lives  were  born  and  passed 
their  years;  where  joys  and  griefs  exclaimed  and 
[33] 


COVERED  WITH  MUD  AND  GLORY 

wept,  where  the  peasant,  the  son  of  the  soil,  drew 
from  this  soil,  the  generatrix  of  strong  races,  the 
re-vivifying  harvests  which  he  stored  away  in 
the  barn  which  to-day  is  dead. 

Whole  villages  and  great  villages  agonize  in 
this  way  through  months  of  wearing  away,  and 
their  end  is  no  less  terrible,  no  less  majestic,  no 
less  pitiful  than  of  those  villages  with  glorious 
names  which  the  wrath  of  shells  beats  into  dust. 

Cantonment  77  is  made  up  of  those  houses 
which  waste  away.  Between  the  fragile  walls, 
notched  by  an  empty  barn  and  a  fallen  shed,  opens 
a  courtyard.  Filth  spreads  out  in  a  vast  pool  on 
which  float  among  the  refuse  a  pile  of  garbage, 
boxes,  the  waste  of  cooking  and  greasy  papers. 

In  the  corner  of  a  recess  open  to  every  wind, 
on  piles  of  bricks  held  together  by  iron  bars  pulled 
from  the  window  sills,  the  cook  has  set  his  pots 
and  bowls  in  line.  His  fire  of  wood  so  green  that 
the  sap  oozes  out  licks  the  already  blackened  walls 
with  its  long  flames. 

All  that  offers  even  a  precarious  shelter  —  a 

roof  —  is  occupied  by  the  men  who  crowd  in  there 

on  old,  filthy  straw,  and  on  the  meager  rations 

of  fresh  straw,  often  too  fresh.    And  as  the  tiles 

[34] 


SONG    OF    THE    MACHINE    GUN 

and  thatch  let  the  rain  filter  through,  they  stretch 
above  them  strips  of  tent  canvas. 

Oh,  blessed  canvas !  To  what  uses  is  it  not  put  I 
It  serves  as  a  roof  against  bad  weather,  the  rain 
and  snow;  a  protection  against  dampness,  mud 
and  vermin;  planted  on  two  stakes,  stretched  to 
a  door  casing,  it  protects  the  fires  for  cooking 
from  draughts;  in  the  more  comfortable  canton- 
ments in  the  rear,  where  the  straw  is  clean  and 
abundant,  where  the  men  are  at  last  able  to  take 
off  their  shoes,  and  their  muddy  leggings  and  their 
trousers  heavy  with  dampness,  it  serves  as  the  bed 
clothes;  and,  finally,  at  the  last  hour  it  is  in  the 
tent  canvas  that  they  collect  the  bodies  with  their 
torn  and  shattered  limbs.  It  serves  as  shroud  and 
coffin.  And,  faithful  to  its  role,  It  is  the  last 
shelter. 

The  men  began  to  arrive  by  groups  almost  in 
order,  at  any  rate  as  much  so  as  the  littered 
ground  In  the  courtyard  would  permit.  They  as- 
sembled by  sections  in  a  half  circle  around  the 
pool  of  filth.  It  was  certainly  a  picturesque  sight 
when,  at  the  command  "  Attention,"  these  men 
mounted  a  faultless  guard  around  this  fetid  pool, 
where,  among  papers,  tossed  about  and  dirty,  and 
[35] 


COVERED  WITH  MUD  AND  GLORY 

box  covers,  there  floated,  bloated  and  fetid,  all 
kinds  of  carrion,  the  rats  of  the  last  hecatomb. 

Near  the  doorway  on  the  largest  and  cleanest 
part  of  the  courtyard  the  eight  machine  guns  were 
drawn  up  in  line. 

Eight  machine  guns,  the  armament  of  the 
company. 

Eight  guns,  so  small,  so  fine,  and  such  bits  of 
workmanship,  that  one  would  think  to  see  them 
that  they  were  a  child's  playthings. 

The  machine  guns  appeared  very  coquettish  and 
pretty  as  they  rested  on  their  bluish-gray  tripod, 
with  their  steel  barrels  well  burnished  even  to  the 
mouth  of  their  muzzles.  They  hardly  appeared 
at  all  threatening  with  the  polished  leather  of 
the  breech,  where  the  bronzed  fist  of  the  gun 
layer  stood  out  in  graceful  designs,  and  the 
attenuated  round  and  svelte  circles  of  the 
radiator. 

And  the  machine  gun  is  a  coquette,  too.  Under 
its  appearance  of  delicacy  and  grace  it  conceals  a 
terrible  power  of  domination  and  strength.  Yet 
it  hurls  pitiless  death  without  noise,  with  a  rapid- 
ity as  furtive  as  a  shout  of  laughter,  with  a  tac-tac 
which  is  scarcely  perceptible  and  which  is  no  more 
[36] 


c/2 


SONG    OF   THE    MACHINE    GUN 
n^enacing  than  the  familiar  tac-tac  of  the  sewing- 
machine  or  the  typewriter. 

And  the  machine  gun  is  a  coquette,  too !    Fash 
ioned  like  a  work  of  art,  the  brilhancy  o     .ts 

polished  steel  and  the  voluptuous  roundness  of  the 
brass  invite  caresses.  Its  shots  come  from  they 
know  not  where,  since  they  can  see  nothing - 
a  bush  is  sufficient  to  conceal  it;  light,  it  is  here  one 
minute  and  there  another;  it  is  not  visib  e  unt 
one  is  almost  upon  it,  yet  its  shots  are  fatal  at 

Tfdllicate  and  costly,  needing  a  hundred 
things  for  its  adornment,  skilled  care  for  its 
toilet  and  a  hundred  men  to  serve.  Is  not  the 
machine  gun  a  coquette? 

As  the  Company  Casanova  is  of  recent  forma 

tion  it  received  an  entirely  new  armament  of  the 

test  model.    The  guns  are  built  on  the  Hotch- 

kiss  system  -  the  last  word  of  perfection  in  war. 

They  are  light,  scarcely  fifty  pounds,  and  they  are 

Is'o  manipulate  skilfully.    The  rap  dity  o  their 
L/is  extreme,  more  than  five  hundre     sots 

minute,   and  their  adjustment  is  such  tht  they 
can  fire  on  the  most  varied  objects.    First   thr 
is  blockade  fire,  which  concentrates  all  the  shots 


[37] 


COVERED  WITH  MUD  AND  GLORY 

on  a  narrow  point;  then  the  sweeping  fire,  which 
sweeps  the  whole  of  an  extended  field;  and  finally, 
indirect  fire,  which  hits  its  designated  target  with 
mathematical  precision,  at  the  same  time  con- 
cealing the  source. 

The  machine  gun  is  the  little  queen  of  battles. 
One  may  smile  to  look  at  her,  but  one  shudders 
when  he  thinks  of  her  ravages. 

And  the  men  are  proud  of  their  guns. 

I  observe  them  while  the  lieutenant  speaks  to 
them  and  their  eyes  look  alternately  at  the  lieuten- 
ant and  at  their  respective  guns.  They  know  their 
gun;  they  love  her;  possess  her.  They  have  con- 
fidence in  her,  and  it  is  she  who  defends  them. 

To-day  there  are  about  one  hundred  and  fifty 
men  grouped  in  the  same  specialty,  from  all 
regions,  all  regiments,  all  arms,  who  have  come 
after  more  or  less  lengthy  stays  in  the  instruction 
camps  at  Nice,  Clermont,  and  La  Valbonne. 

Their  specialty  has  created  among  them  a  cer- 
tain sort  of  affinity,  a  family  characteristic.  Ma- 
chine gunners  are  an  element  apart,  a  sort  of 
elite.  In  their  ranks  there  is  a  certain  homogene- 
ity which  comes  from  the  practice  of  the  same 
competency  which  is  nearly  a  science.  They  feel 
[38] 


SONG    OF   THE    MACHINE    GUN 

somewhat  superior  to,  at  least  different  from,  the 
ordinary  companies. 

They  appreciate  the  worth  of  their  distinction 
and  scarcely  ever  associate  with  other  troops. 
The  companies  of  infantry  are  swamped  in  a  bat- 
talion, while  the  companies  of  machine  guns  are 
isolated,  autonomous,  directly  dependent  on  the 
commanding  officer,  and  they  enjoy  an  absolute 
initiative  in  a  battle.  Finally,  they  are  not  anony- 
mous or  numbered;  they  are  not  called  the  fifth, 
seventh,  or  the  twelfth,  but  the  "  Company  Casa- 
nova," as  they  once  said  Royal-Piemont  or  Prince 
Conde. 

Then,  too,  there  is  their  insignia.  The  insignia 
is  the  bauble,  the  jewel,  of  the  soldier.  It  is  a  real 
satisfaction  to  have  something  on  the  uniform 
which  distinguishes  one  from  his  neighbor.  To 
such  a  point  do  they  carry  this  that  many  cannot 
resist  putting  on  insignia  to  which  they  have  n't 
the  slightest  right.  And  none  of  the  insignia 
arouses  greater  envy  than  the  two  small  inter- 
secting cannons  of  the  machine  guns. 

It  takes  one  hundred  and  fifty  men,  two  officers, 
ten  non-commissioned  officers,  and  sixty  horses  to 
serve,  supply  and  transport  the  eight  small  guns, 
[39] 


COVERED  WITH  MUD  AND  GLORY 

one  hundred  and  fifty  men  trained  and  inured  to 
hardship.  There  is  none  here  who  has  not  been 
in  several  battles  and  received  several  wounds  in 
his  active  service.  There  is  none  here  who  has 
not  a  good  record.  When  said  of  one  that  means 
little,  but  when  said  of  all  it  is  worth  telling. 

There  are  artillerymen,  cavalrymen,  and 
sailors  who  have  become  foot  soldiers  through 
their  different  changes;  and  not  only  are  all  arms 
represented,  but  all  professions,  all  classes  and 
all  temperaments.  Jacquet,  a  poet  and  musician, 
a  dreamer  with  an  exquisite  soul,  is  an  accurate 
gun  layer.  Finger  drives  milk  wagons  in  Paris, 
but  with  his  gigantic  hands  he  manipulates  with 
delicacy  the  wheelwork  of  his  Hotchkiss.  Mil- 
lazo,  who  behind  his  counter  at  Hanoi  showed 
gracefully  the  jewels  of  Indo-Chinese  art  and 
learned  at  Lure  the  meticulous  art  of  watchmak- 
ing, now  manages  a  ''  sweeping  "  fire  as  calmly 
and  accurately  as  he  used  to  mount  a  spiral  spring 
on  its  microscopic  pivot.  Corporal  Vial,  who 
used  to  verify  accounts  in  the  luxurious  banks  on 
the  Riviera  and  handle  tinkling  gold  and  checks, 
here  shows  that  he  knows  the  science  of  fire  and 
his  machine  and  leads  his  squad  with  authority. 
[40] 


SONG    OF   THE    MACHINE    GUN 

Charlet  drove  the  heavy  locomotives  on  the  rail- 
ways of  the  North;  Gamie  regulated  the  powerful 
looms  in  the  textile  factories,  and  they  both  owe 
to  their  knowledge  of  mechanics  their  duties  as 
range  takers.  Imbert  was  a  fisherman  and,  as 
he  knows  how  to  cook  a  savory  bouillabaisse,  he 
is  assigned  to  the  difficult  role  of  cook  and  acquits 
himself  conscientiously  and  well.  However, 
Chevalier,  an  expert  in  geometry,  who  for  twenty 
years  grew  pale  in  profound  studies  of  logarithms 
and  co-ordinates,  here  assumes  the  duties  of  mess 
corporal,  and  discusses  with  asperity  the  supplies 
and  remarks  pitilessly  on  the  regulation  cup  of 
wine  and  the  mathematical  pounds  and  ounces  of 
mutton,  lard  and  beans. 

In  spite  of  what  one  might  think,  this  odd  col- 
lection of  men  is  as  homogeneous  as  could  be 
imagined.  This  comes  from  the  fact  that  above 
all  this  different  knowledge  is  a  uniform  purpose, 
because  all  these  multiple  alliances  tend  toward  a 
common  end  which  Is  incarnated  in  their  chief, 
a  man  from  the  South,  who  Is  expansive  and  im- 
petuous, but  who  curbs  his  temperament  under 
the  rigid  calm  of  a  man  from  the  North,  one  of 
the  common  people,  a  son  of  the  soil,  who  has 
[41] 


COVERED  WITH  MUD  AND  GLORY 

risen  to  the  rank  of  officer,  and  a  commanding 
officer  at  that,  solely  through  persistency  and 
courage. 

When  the  lieutenant  had  finished  his  rapid  but 
close  inspection,  and  had  examined  with  the  eye 
of  a  connoisseur  the  condition  and  repair  of  the 
guns,  he  took  in  the  whole  company  with  a  look, 
for  it  is  his  work  which  he  commands  with  firm- 
ness and  which  he  loves.  He  is  already  going, 
after  addressing  a  few  remarks  to  the  adjutant 
and  the  classic,  "  All  right.  Break  ranks,"  when 
a  man  steps  out  of  the  ranks  and  comes  towards 
him. 

"  Lieutenant,  the  company  is  now  completely 
equipped  and  armed,  but  there  is,  however,  still 
something  lacking." 

"  Indeed,"  replied  the  lieutenant,  "  and  what 's 
that?" 

"  Its  marching  song." 

*'  Its  marching  song!     Have  you  chosen  one?  " 

"  Chosen  one !     Oh,  no  !     We  have  an  unpub- 
lished one,   as  new  as  the  company  itself,  com- 
posed for  us  and  created  by  us.     Will  you  do  us 
the  honor  of  listening  to  it?  " 
[42] 


SONG    OF    THE    MACHINE    GUN 

"Will  I?  The  devil.  I  ask  it;  I  demand  it. 
I  want  to  learn  it,  too.  Go  on.  Start  it!  "  he 
exclaimed. 

And  then  Gaix  turned  towards  his  comrades 
and  began  to  sing  in  his  great  deep  baritone  voice 
our  marching  song,  "  Ma  Mitrailleuse,"  which 
each  section  had  learned  secretly  and  which  they 
sang  together  for  the  first  time  to-day. 

On  a  rhythm  taken  from  some  war  rnarch,  some 
one  had  composed  simple  words,  which  were 
nevertheless  image-provoking  and  vibrant,  where 
the  alternating  motet  "  Ma  Mitrailleuse,"  sung 
in  chorus,  sounds  like  a  bugle  call. 

This  marching  song  is  one  of  those  which  en- 
grave themselves  at  once  on  the  memory  and  in 
the  heart,  which  are  never  forgotten,  for  in  their 
accents  are  rooted  the  strongest  impressions  of 
the  hours  lived  in  the  simple  brotherhood  of  arms, 
the  memory  of  dangers  encountered  together,  the 
pride  of  victories,  and  the  pious  homage  to  those 
who  sang  it  with  us  and  whose  manly  voices  were 
silenced  forever  in  the  night  of  battles. 

And  I  find  in  writing  it  the  same  deep  stir- 
ring emotion  that  I  experienced  when  I  first 
heard  it. 

[43] 


COVERED  WITH  MUD  AND  GLORY 

MA    MITRAILLEUSE 

Sur  notre  front,  dans  ton  abri, 
Tu  dors  sur  ton  trepied  bleu  gris, 
Calme  dans  Vombre  vaporeuse. 

Ma  mitrailleuse. 
Et  ton  canon  d'acier  bleui 
Benoitement  perce  la  nuit. 
Que  tu  parais  peu  dangereuse. 

Ma  mitrailleuse. 

Si  parfois  en  te  transportant 

Je  trouve  ton  poids  fatigant, 

Et  dis  tout  bas  "  la  sacre  gueuse!  " 

Ma  mitrailleuse, 
Fardonne-moi,  car  'fai  grand  tort, 
Sachant  que  tu  chantes  la  mort 
De  VAllemagne  furieuse. 

Ma  mitrailleuse. 

Mais  dans  le  petit  jour  blemi, 

Alerte!      Void  Vennemi! 

Et  t'eveillant  soudain  rageuse. 

Ma  mitrailleuse, 
Avec  tes  tac  tac  reguliers 
Fauche  les  Boches  par  milliers. 
Sans  t'arreter,  noire  et  fumeuse. 

Ma  mitrailleuse. 

Et  comme  nous  elle  attendra 
Le  grand  jour  qui  declanchera 
Uoffensive   victorieuse. 
Ma  mitrailleuse. 

[44] 


SONG    OF   THE    MACHINE    GUN 

Poursuivant  le  bandit  germain, 
J'entendrai  sur  les  bords  du  Rhin, 
Au  grand  soleil,  claquer  joyeuse 
Ma  mitrailleuse. 

When  the  last  accents,  sung  by  the  men  at  the 
top  of  their  lungs,  died  away,  there  was  silence 
and  I  looked  at  the  lieutenant. 

He  was  seated  on  a  staircase,  with  his  head 
leaning  on  his  clenched  fists.  He  had  listened  to 
the  whole  song,  and  now  he  remained  for  a 
moment  as  if  waiting.  And  when  he  stood  up 
his  eyes  were  slightly  red  and  his  lips  concealed 
under  a  smile  the  impress  of  intense  emotion. 

"  It  is  good,"  he  said,  *'  very  beautiful,  my 
friends,  and  I  congratulate  you  all.  Your  song 
is  admirable,  it  will  go  with  us  everywhere,  and 
we  will  lead  it  to  victory.  But  who  is  the  author  ? 
There  must  be  an  author.  The  devil,  there  must 
be  an  author!  " 

There  was  a  moment  of  silence  as  if  each  one 
hesitated  to  reply,  but  a  big  sergeant  cried  out 
in  a  stentorian  voice : 

"  A  ban  for  the  author.  Lieutenant  Delpos,  and 
a  couplet  for  him  besides." 

Then   the   men  broke   all   alignment,   pressed 

[45] 


COVERED  WITH  MUD  AND  GLORY 

around  their  young  sub-lieutenant,  joyous,  proud 
and  blushing  with  pleasure,  weeping  with  joy,  and 
burst  out  at  the  top  of  their  lungs,  with  inde- 
scribable feeling,  which  showed  all  their  strength, 
their  will  for  victory  and  their  unbreakable 
confidence : 

Et  comme  nous  elle  attendra 
Le  grand  jour  qui  declanchera 
Uoffensive  victorieuse, 

Ma  mitrailleuse. 
Poursivant  le  bandit  germain, 
J'entendrai  sur  les  bords  du  Rhin, 
Au  grand  soleil,  claquer  joyeuse 

Ma  mitrailleuse. 

Then,  amidst  the  applause  and  the  "  vivats," 
the  lieutenant  embraced  his  young  friend  vigor- 
ously and  said: 

*'  Nom  de  Dieu !  You  did  n't  tell  me  that  you 
were  a  poet.     I  congratulate  you." 

And  taking  him  by  the  arm,  he  went  off  joyous, 
skipping  like  a  gamin,  taking  up  again  the  in- 
spiring refrain: 

Ma  Mitrailleuse  .  .  .  Ma  Mitrailleuse! 


[46] 


CHAPTER    V 

A   RECONNAISSANCE    IN   THE    FOG 

ONE  evening  the  lieutenant  said  to  me  a  little 
after  dinner : 

"  To-morrow,  at  four  o'clock,  we  're  going  to 
the  first  line  trenches  to  find  positions  for  the 
machine  guns.  The  section  leaders  are  coming, 
and  if  you  want  to  come,  you  '11  find  it  interesting." 

The  selection  of  a  machine  gun  emplacement 
is  essentially  a  delicate  task.  The  Germans  are 
past  masters  in  this  art.  So,  in  the  days  of  attack 
when  our  artillery  had  made  a  thorough  prepara- 
tion and  they  were  convinced  that  there  was  noth- 
ing left  in  front  and  we  could  advance  without 
trouble,  exactly  as  though  taking  a  walk  in  a 
square,  we  found  ourselves  abruptly  right  in  the 
fire  of  a  Boche  machine  gun  which  had  not  been 
spotted  and  which  was  so  skilfully  camouflaged 
that  it  had  resisted  the  most  terrible  bombardment. 

It  is  necessary  above  all  to  find  a  place  which 
commands  a  wide  field  of  fire  and  one  easy  to 
[47] 


COVERED  WITH  MUD  AND  GLORY 

play  on.  It  must  also  be  easy  to  conceal  the  gun 
in  some  way,  for,  if  it  is  once  spotted,  a  shell 
will  soon  send  the  gun  and  its  crew  pirouetting 
in  the  air,  unless  they  are  forewarned  by  a  shot 
too  long  or  too  short,  but  whose  destination  is 
unmistakable,  and  so  have  time  to  move. 

It  was  scarcely  daylight  when  we  assembled  in 
front  of  the  lieutenant's  quarters. 

A  fog  that  could  be  cut  with  a  knife  limited  our 
view  to  a  few  yards.     It  was  cold. 

Sergeant  Lace  is  there  already  walking  back 
and  forth  in  the  fog.  He  is  always  exactly  punc- 
tual, anyway.  He  is  equipped  as  if  for  an  as- 
sault with  his  revolver,  mask,  and  field  glasses. 
His  chest  is  covered  with  numerous  colonial  deco- 
rations, his  military  medal  and  his  war  cross  with 
three  palms. 

Lace  is  a  section  leader  emeritus.  He  is  rough 
and  harsh  in  appearance;  he  never  smiles,  or 
rarely;  he  is  tanned  from  his  long  stay  in  the 
colonies,  but  he  does  his  duty  with  unfailing  ex- 
actness. During  an  attack  in  Champagne  he  found 
himself  under  the  command  of  his  brother,  a  lieu- 
tenant, who  was  mortally  wounded  at  his  side. 
He  embraced  him  reverently,  took  the  papers, 
[48] 


A    RECONNAISSANCE    IN    THE    FOG 

pocketbook  and  letters  from  the  pockets  of  his 
jacket,  removed  his  decorations,  which  were  now 
relics,  and  resumed  his  place  in  the  ranks.  He 
fought  all  day,  attacked  a  fortified  position,  as- 
sisted in  the  dangerous  task  of  clearing  a  wood, 
and  when  night  came,  by  the  light  of  star  shells 
under  a  hellish  bombardment  and  a  storm  of 
shrapnel,  he  went  back  and  brought  out  his 
brother's  body  and  gave  it  proper  burial.  Lace 
is  a  soldier  and  a  conscientious  one. 

Other  silhouettes  approach  and  come  out  of 
the  darkness  like  ghosts.  One  is  Poirier,  a  very 
young  man,  who  laughs  in  the  midst  of  the  worst 
dangers,  which  he  absolutely  ignores.  Then  there 
is  big  Roulle,  whom  ten  years  in  the  tropics  did 
not  succeed  in  making  thin,  and  whose  breadth 
of  shoulder  is  ill-adapted  to  the  narrowness  of 
the  communication  trenches.  Then  Pierron  comes 
on  the  run,  singing  a  Neapolitan  song.  He  is 
from  Saigon  and  is  homesick  for  the  Asiatic  nights, 
whose  charms  he  is  forever  describing. 

As  the  hour  strikes  the  lieutenant  appears. 

We   follow  the  main   road  through  the   fog. 
This  leads  to  Lehons,  a  ruined  village  which  is 
situated  in  the  lines  and  cuts  the  trenches. 
[49] 


COVERED  WITH  MUD  AND  GLORY 

One  can  hardly  distinguish  the  trees  in  the  fields 
either  to  the  right  or  the  left.  The  dawn  is  silent. 
Nature  wants  light  for  her  awakening,  but  this 
morning  the  lights  persist  in  staying  dim. 

We  hear  occasionally  a  cannon  shot,  as  sharp 
as  the  crack  of  a  whip.  It  comes  from  a  battery 
of  '*  75's  "  concealed  in  a  wood  at  our  side,  which 
fires  at  stated  intervals  for  tactical  reasons.  The 
shell  shatters  the  air  over  our  heads  and  all  be- 
comes quiet  again. 

So  we  walk  along  for  nearly  an  hour,  some 
grouped  together  while  others  dream  away  by 
themselves.  The  fog  now  begins  to  lighten  and 
we  are  able  to  see  the  adjoining  fields.  They  are 
torn  with  shell  holes,  the  rare  trees  are  shattered 
and  slashed,  and  their  branches  hang  down  like 
broken  limbs.  In  the  ditches,  full  of  muddy  water, 
are  piles  of  material  —  rolls  of  barbed  wire,  eaten 
by  rust,  chevaux  de  frise  broken  to  pieces,  and 
crossbars  and  round  logs  already  covered  with 
moss. 

Suddenly,  there  in  front  of  us,  at  two  paces, 
splitting  the    fog   is  —  the   village.      There    are 
houses  —  remains  of  houses  —  and  parts  of  walls 
[50] 


A    RECONNAISSANCE    IN    THE    FOG 

which  through  some  prodigious  feat  of  balance 
persist  in  remaining  upright. 

The  first  house  on  the  right  was  apparently  of 
some  importance.  The  two  master  walls  still  re- 
main in  spite  of  the  roof  having  fallen.  Between 
them  is  a  pile  of  stones,  burnt  girders,  and  in  the 
middle  of  the  heap  of  rubbish  still  stands,  intact 
and  rigid,  pointing  straight  toward  yawning 
heaven,  the  iron  balustrade  of  a  winding  staircase. 
A  great  signboard  of  black  wood  runs  from  one 
wall  to  the  other,  apparently  holding  them  to- 
gether, and  one  might  believe  that  they  only  re- 
main upright,  thanks  to  it.  It  is  riddled  with 
bullets  and  the  flames  have  licked  it  as  they  passed, 
but  one  can  still  read  the  long  yellow  letters  of 
the  inscription; 

Lodgings 
Famous  Cuisine      Comfortable  Rooms 

None  of  us  risk  an  ironical  reflection  or  a 
mocking  smile,  for  to-day  we  have  become  ac- 
customed to  so  many  strange  inscriptions  which 
in  disaster  are  the  living  lie  of  their  emptiness. 

Opposite,  on  the  other  side  of  the  road,  the 
military  cemetery  shows  its  multitude  of  crosses. 
[51] 


COVERED  WITH  MUD  AND  GLORY 

Their  number  has  exceeded  the  capacity  of  the 
site  provided  for  it,  and  they  have  already  be- 
come masters  of  the  surrounding  fields.  These 
graves  are  all  immutably  alike,  and  they  are  built 
and  maintained  with  a  fraternal  affection  by  com- 
panies of  Territorials  who  hold  the  cantonments 
in  the  neighborhood. 

Yes,  they  are  all  immutably  alike.  There  is 
always  the  white  wooden  cross  with  the  name  of 
the  deceased,  the  number  of  his  regiment,  his 
company  and  the  date  of  his  death  in  simple 
black  letters.  The  grave  is  a  small  square,  bor- 
dered by  bits  of  tile  or  bricks,  sometimes  by 
planks  or  the  bottoms  of  bottles.  And  on  this 
humble  burial  place  someone  has  planted  prim- 
roses. 

A  bottle  stuck  in  the  ground  by  the  neck  holds 
a  bit  of  paper  on  which  is  written  all  supplemen- 
tary information  as  to  identity  which  will  guide 
the  pious  pilgrim  of  to-morrow. 

Sometimes  a  perforated  helmet  or  a  tattered 
cap  placed  on  the  cross  by  a  comrade  who  respects 
his  memory  tells  us  that  the  soldier  was  wounded 
in  the  head.  One  shudders  at  some  of  these  hel- 
mets, they  are  rent  so  grievously. 

[52] 


A    RECONNAISSANCE    IN    THE    FOG 

We  pass  rapidly  but  religiously  through  the 
narrow  paths  between  the  graves.  It  is  a  sort  of 
duty  rather  than  curiosity  which  leads  us  to  look 
over  all  these  cemeteries  in  search  of  some  known 
name,  a  friend's  name,  so  that  we  may  pay  our 
last  respects. 

But  time  passes.  It  would  not  be  prudent  to 
stop  longer,  for  already  above  the  neighboring 
hedge  we  can  hear  the  sinister  "  ta-co  "  of  the 
German  bullets.  Branches  of  an  apple  tree, 
lopped  off  by  the  shells,  fall  at  our  feet. 

So  we  enter  the  village  through  what  was  once 
a  street.  Here  for  fifty  yards  are  barricades  of 
bricks  and  dirt  interlaced  with  farm  instruments 
and  carts. 

Barbed-wire  entanglements  which  only  leave  a 
narrow,  difficult,  zigzag  passage  between  them 
are  evidences  of  the  bitter  fights  which  took  place 
here. 

We  reach  the  church  which  Is  the  beginning  of 
the  communication  trench  which  leads  to  the  front 
lines. 

The  church !  There  is  absolutely  nothing  left 
of  it.  One  might  think  that  the  savagery  of  the 
[53] 


COVERED  WITH  MUD  AND  GLORY 

German  cannon  raged  with  a  special  hate  on  the 
buildings  created  for  rest,  meditation  and  prayer. 

The  church  has  fallen  down  and  the  naves  are 
now  only  a  mass  of  stones  on  which  the  briers  are 
already  beginning  to  grow.  A  sort  of  arched  door 
still  stands  at  the  entrance,  without  a  scratch.  It 
is  nearly  new  and  its  brilliant  ironwork  seems  a 
challenge  in  the  midst  of  this  destruction. 

The  communication  trench  starts  on  the  spot 
where  the  high  altar  used  to  stand.  We  follow 
It  under  the  ruins,  through  the  orchards  which  it 
furrows,  adjusting  our  steps  to  each  other,  and 
keeping  our  eyes  on  the  man  ahead. 

Above  our  heads  nature  awakes;  the  sky  ap- 
pears clear  now;  and  branches  of  trees  with  their 
buds  and  blossoms  hang  over  the  parapets. 

It  is  five  o'clock  and  broad  daylight  when  we 
reach  the  proposed  emplacement.  It  is  on  a  knoll 
in  the  middle  of  an  orchard  which  is  bordered 
some  hundred  yards  away  by  hawthorn  and 
privet  hedges.  Behind  the  hedges  are  the  Boche 
lines. 

The  engineer  in  charge  of  laying  out  the  works 
Is  on  the  ground.  He  tries  to  profit  by  the  only 
salient  which  permits  firing  on  a  sufficiently  wide 
[54] 


A    RECONNAISSANCE    IN    THE    FOG 

sweep  of  ground.  On  the  right  it  commands  the 
entrance  to  the  village  by  a  road.  We  see  its 
white  windings  where  it  unrolls  through  the  gar- 
dens, and  then  it  plunges  into  a  small  wood  and 
loses  itself.  Opposite  us  the  emplacement  com- 
mands an  entire  sector. 

They  will  scoop  out  the  place  underneath,  and 
they  will  keep  the  green  shell  of  grass  and  bushes 
which  make  the  most  fortunate  and  natural  sort 
of  camouflage.  A  communication  trench  grafted 
on  the  main  trench  from  the  church  will  give 
access  to  it.    . 

Orders  are  given  rapidly,  measurements  are 
taken,  and  the  tasks  laid  out.  It  is  hardly  expe- 
dient for  us  to  delay  in  this  corner,  for  our  move- 
ments would  betray  our  intentions,  and  already 
bullets,  which  are  by  no  means  spent  bullets,  cross 
above  our  heads  singing  their  unappreciated  buzz. 

We  make  our  way  back  through  the  trench. 

In  the  village  the  men  belonging  to  the  sup- 
porting columns  have  left  their  lairs  and  are  at- 
tending to  their  usual  occupations.  Some  of  them 
are  washing  their  clothes  in  the  watering-trough 
in  the  square  and  singing  as  they  wash.  The 
company  barber  is  installed  near  the  fountain  and 

[55] 


COVERED  WITH  MUD  AND  GLORY 

the  men  form  a  circle  about  him  as  they  wait 
their  turn.  On  a  butcher's  stall  of  white  stone  a 
cook  is  cutting  up  a  quarter  of  beef  into  equal 
rations.  Only  two  hundred  yards  from  the  enemy 
the  village  has  taken  up  almost  its  usual  existence 
again.  These  men  are  not  afraid.  At  the  sound 
of  the  first  shell  they  jump  into  their  cellars,  which 
are  amply  protected  by  earth  and  boards.  But 
they  already  have  their  customs.  Shells  only 
come  at  the  hour  when  the  supplies  are  brought 
up,  and  not  always  then,  for  the  shelling  does  n't 
occur  regularly  every  day.  The  enemy  does  n*t 
waste  munitions  on  a  village  he  knows  is  so  well 
destroyed. 

The  fresh  air  and  the  long  road  have  set  our 
teeth  on  edge  and  given  us  an  appetite.  We  halt 
to  break  a  crust.  Some  have  brought  canteens 
of  wine  or  coffee;  bottles  of  preserves  appear,  and 
the  improvident  —  I  am  one  —  pay  homage  to 
those  who  pass  a  full  flask. 

The  sun  is  already  high  when  we  start  back 
along  the  road. 

The  lieutenant  loves  a  quick  pace  and  a  march- 
ing song.  So  at  the  top  of  his  lungs  he  begins 
one  of  his  lively  songs  full  of  expressions  that 
[56] 


A  PoiLU     See  page  ^6 


A    RECONNAISSANCE    IN    THE    FOG 

would  have  startled  a  growler  of  the  Empire 
through  their  shamelessness,  but  which  do  not  dis- 
turb the  modesty  of  a  Colonial  at  all,  supposing 
that  a  Colonial  ever  had  any. 

And  the  section  leaders  take  up  the  refrain  in 
chorus. 

Some  steps  behind,  Sub-Lieutenant  Delpos  stops 
to  light  his  fine  Egyptian  cigarette.  In  spite  of 
the  early  hour  and  the  uncertain  weather,  and 
with  no  thought  of  the  disagreeable  march  through 
the  sticky  mud  of  the  communication  trench,  he 
is  dressed  with  the  greatest  care.  His  bright  tan 
leggings  are  elegantly  curved;  his  furred  gloves 
are  of  the  finest  quality,  and  the  pocket  of  his 
jacket,  cut  in  the  latest  English  style,  shows  a  fine 
cambric  handkerchief,  subtly  scented.  And  arm 
in  arm  we  follow  the  quick  pace  of  our  comrades, 
while  he  continues  the  interrupted  story  of  his 
latest  exploit. 

"  Yes,  fuon  cher,  picture  to  yourself  an  exquis- 
ite blonde.  I  met  her  on  the  Rue  des  Saints- 
Peres.  .  .  ." 


[57] 


CHAPTER   VI 

OUR    FIRST   ENGAGEMENT 

YESTERDAY  evening  at  five  o'clock  we 
received  an  order  to  take  our  positions  in 
the  front  line  to  support  the  attack  which  the 
second  battalion  would  make  at  nine-thirty. 

It  was  raining.  It  has  rained  all  the  time  for 
some  months,  and  we  have  become  accustomed 
to  the  mud  and  dampness. 

We  left  the  cantonment  at  Morcourt  at  night- 
fall. We  went  along  the  towpath  of  the  canal, 
across  the  bridge  at  Froissy,  through  the  ruins 
of  Eclusier  and  entered  the  communication  trench 
which  we  knew  as  the  "  120  long." 

The  silent  march  is  accomplished  with  little 
difficulty.  There  is  no  sound  of  cannon.  Every- 
thing is  quiet.  We  reach  our  positions  about  mid- 
night —  four  dugouts  camouflaged  for  the  guns 
of  two  sections  which  are  to  play  on  the  sector;  the 
two  other  sections  remain  in  the  "  Servian  "  trench 
in  reserve  at  the  disposal  of  the  commander. 
[58] 


OUR    FIRST    ENGAGEMENT 

The  lieutenant  examines  the  post  established 
for  him.  Farther  ahead  is  a  communication 
trench  which  has  been  completely  overturned  and 
destroyed,  now  nothing  but  a  great  hole.  Below 
is  a  big  tangle  of  barbed  wire,  fascines  and  ripped 
open  sandbags.  We  can  see  very  well  through 
this  jumble  and  we  are  installed  there. 

We  can  make  out  the  details  of  the  Boche  lines 
through  the  glass. 

''  Come.  I  think  It  will  be  all  right.  But  it 
will  be  hard.     Fortunately,  it  can't  last  long.'* 

Then  we  return  to  the  positions  for  a  final 
inspection. 

The  emplacements  which  our  guns  occupy  are 
round  excavations  about  three  yards  across  and 
two  deep.  In  the  middle  nearly  on  a  level  with 
the  surrounding  ground  is  a  sort  of  pedestal  for 
the  machine  gun.  The  barrel  scarcely  reaches 
beyond  the  hole  and  it  is  absolutely  invisible  at 
a  short  distance.  The  men  have  proceeded  to 
make  a  camouflage  which  resembles  the  character 
of  the  terrain  with  wickerwork  covered  by  dirt 
and  grass.  The  many  inventions  with  which  they 
have  increased  the  weight  of  the  machine  guns  — 
the  shield,  sights  and  periscope  —  are  in  their 
[59] 


COVERED  WITH  MUD  AND  GLORY 

places.  The  men  disdain  these  additions  a  little 
and  even  neglect  to  use  them  unless  forced  to 
do  so. 

"  They  would  only  have  to  add  a  little  more," 
they  say,  "  to  make  a  '  75  '  instead  of  a  machine 
gun." 

"  The  periscope  may  be  of  use  for  something. 
You  have  to  try  half  an  hour  before  you  can  see 
anything.     I  like  my  eyes  better." 

The  ammunition  wagons  are  installed  and 
opened;  the  belts  are  ready;  the  gun  layer,  the 
loader,  and  the  crew  are  at  their  stations. 

The  lieutenant  makes  the  rounds  of  each  sec- 
tion, inspecting  the  guns,  testing  the  mechanism, 
trying  the  weight  of  the  munitions,  taking  account 
of  everything  and  looking  each  man  in  the  face. 

"  We  are  the  last  company  organized,"  he  says. 
"  You  know  that  the  machine  gunners  should  be 
the  flower  of  the  army;  don't  forget  it.  It  is  our 
first  engagement.  Try  to  show  that  we  're  there 
a  little." 

This  short  unpretentious  harangue  produces  its 
effect  on  the  men,  who  smile  as  they  listen  to  it. 
They  are  not  nervous  now,  but  only  slightly  curi- 
ous. They  are  not  sorry  to  put  their  toys  to  the 
[60] 


OUR    FIRST    ENGAGEMENT 

test  at  last,  and  to  shoot  their  projectiles  at  some- 
thing besides  the  moving  figures  in  the  training 
camps. 

When  the  inspection  is  over  and  the  final  in- 
structions have  been  given,  we  return  to  the  com- 
mandant's station,  and  stretch  out  to  sleep  on  the 
reserve  caissons  which  protect  us  from  the  mud. 
Rifts  in  the  clouds  reveal  the  stars.  It  will  be 
fine  to-morrow.  But  waiting  is  cold,  very  cold, 
and  it  is  impossible  to  sleep  under  such  a  wind. 
We  talk. 

"  You  're  going  to  hear  a  concert.  They 
have  n't  massed  more  than  three  hundred  guns 
in  all,  from  the  '  75  '  to  the  heavy  artillery,  on 
our  fifteen  hundred  yard  front  for  nothing.  Have 
you  seen  the  '150'  mortars?  They  have  some 
muzzles." 

Dawn  appears.  A  light  fog  rises  from  the 
ground  and  seems  thickest  at  the  side  of  the  canal 
where  the  German  positions  are.  It  is  the  coldest 
hour  of  the  day  and  the  earth  of  our  dugout  is 
as  hard  as  iron;  it  is  frozen.  Instinctively  I  let 
down  the  ear-flaps  of  my  cap  which  until  now  I 
have  kept  under  my  helmet. 

"Are  you  cold?" 

[61] 


COVERED  WITH  MUD  AND  GLORY 

*'  I  'm  not  warm." 

"A  drop  of  brandy?  " 

''  Sure." 

The  lieutenant  passes  his  canteen  to  me  and 
as  I  drink  the  thin  stream  from  its  mouth  I  feel 
a  wave  of  warmth. 

Light  comes,  but  it  is  very  pale.  Around  us 
we  hear  the  tread  of  feet  on  the  hard  ground  and 
the  slapping  of  arms  across  the  chest. 

We  wait  nervously.  Presently  we  receive  an 
order  not  to  fire  until  the  blast  of  the  whistle. 

Eight  o'clock!  Behind  us,  in  the  limpid  azure, 
the  red  disk  of  the  sun  rises. 

A  shell  cuts  through  the  air;  then  another;  then 
still  another.  Our  artillery  is  firing  on  the  Boche 
lines. 

*'  Attention."  The  response  is  instantaneous. 
We  can  still  see  no  movement  in  the  ranks  of  the 
infantry  to  our  right  whose  rush  we  are  to  sup- 
port. What  are  they  waiting  for?  The  men  are 
nervous  and  they  start  to  grumble. 

Boom!  comes  the  Boche's  reply. 

A  great  mass  of  earth,  grass  and  crumbled 
stones  shoots  up  a  hundred  yards  ahead  of  us ! 

Too  short! 

[62] 


OUR    FIRST    ENGAGEMENT 

Boom!  still  another.    Still  short! 

A  large  shell  heads  for  us.  It  thunders. 
Where  is  it  going  to  burst  ?  The  devil !  It  falls 
near  our  first  section,  to  the  left;  then,  almost 
at  once,  another,  a  little  to  the  right.  Are  we 
spotted?  We  haven't  fired  a  cartridge  yet,  and 
there  is  n't  an  aeroplane  or  sausage  in  the  air. 

Two  "  150's,"  one  right  after  the  other,  burst 
fair  on  the  section,  right  in  the  hole.  An  enor- 
mous mass  of  earth  spurts  up.  Through  the  dust 
and  smoke  we  see  broken  arms,  sandbags  ripped 
open,  legs  torn  from  the  body,  an  entire  body,  the 
gun!   .  .  . 

The  lieutenant  knits  his  brows  in  dismay.  A 
sergeant  from  the  reserve  half  section,  slightly 
pale,  runs  up  with  the  details. 

"  Sergeant  Rolle,  the  gun  layer,  and  the  crew 
are  killed." 

''  Occupy  the  emplacement  with  your  half- 
section." 

"  Very  well.  Lieutenant." 

Shells  are  falling  in  our  sector  without  a  break. 
All  the  guns  are  splattered  with  splinters  and 
most  of  the  crews  are  slightly  wounded. 

Durozier's  half  section  jump  out  of  their  dug- 
[63] 


COVERED  WITH  MUD  AND  GLORY 

out  In  a  hurry  and  throw  themselves  into  the  hole 
which  has  now  increased  in  size  to  a  vast  yawning 
crater. 

"  If  we  could  only  fire  on  something.  But 
there  's  nothing  to  see.     And  no  signal." 

The  Boche  artillery  certainly  has  a  grudge 
against  our  first  section.  The  new  gun  is  scarcely 
In  position  when  a  great  shell  falls  in  the  same 
place,  in  the  same  crater. 

We  see  distinctly  a  body  blown  high  into  the 
air,  and  the  body  still  holds  the  mount  of  the 
machine  gun  which  he  was  just  setting  in  place. 
Headless,  disemboweled,  it  falls  just  in  front  of 
our  dugout  within  reach  of  our  hands.  It  is 
Gouze,  the  chief  gunner. 

"  The  salauds!  " 

An  intelligence  officer  from  the  major  reaches 
us. 

"  Get  ready  to  support  the  wave  which  is  going 
over  with  all  your  guns !  " 

The  shells  burst  on  our  position  Implacably. 
There  is  n't  the  slightest  choice  between  the  em- 
placements. Three  guns  are  still  intact  and  ready 
to  fire  at  the  blast  of  the  whistle.  But  the  fourth 
gun  must  be  put  In  position,  too. 
[64] 


OUR    FIRST    ENGAGEMENT 

"  Tell  the  adjutant  of  the  section  to  occupy  the 
crater,"  comes  the  order. 

By  means  of  the  half-destroyed  communication 
trench  I  reach  the  section  which  I  find  burrowing 
In  shelters  built  hastily  out  of  whatever  came 
handiest  and  deliver  my  order. 

The  adjutant  takes  It  and  turns  pale. 

''  All  right,  but  there  's  no  great  chance  of  our 
getting  there." 

Their  hearts  throb,  and  they  look  at  each  other. 
It  Is  true  that  it  Is  necessary,  but  on  the  parapet 
between  the  trench  and  the  crater,  no  longer  the 
slightest  protection,  shells  fall  like  hail  and  with- 
out a  let-up.    They  hesitate. 

As  If  he  had  foreseen  this,  the  lieutenant  had 
followed  behind  me.  He  reads  their  hesitation 
in  their  faces  and  is  about  to  say  something  to 
overcome  it  when  the  blast  of  the  major's  whistle 
sounds.  It  is  the  signal.  The  wave  jumps  from 
the  parallels  and  dashes  forward.    We  must  fire. 

Our  three  guns  have  already  begun  their  rattle 
and  are  spraying  the  terrain  before  the  enemy's 
trenches  close  to  the  ground,  probing  the  loop- 
holes, mowing  the  parapets,  and  cutting  the  last 
of  the  barbed  wire. 

[65] 


COVERED  WITH  MUD  AND  GLORY 

The  fourth  gun  ought  to  fire  too;  It  must. 
Then,  quietly,  with  that  unusual  coolness  which 
characterizes  him,  the  lieutenant  clambers  over 
the  parapet. 

"  Will  you  come  with  me,  Margisf  " 

Cigarette  between  his  lips,  leaning  carelessly  on 
his  curved  handled  cane,  as  though  he  were  going 
for  a  morning  walk  through  the  fields,  he  advances, 
standing  very  straight,  without  hurrying,  and 
without  losing  an  inch  of  his  great  height. 

The  men  understand.  Five  seconds  later  we 
are  in  the  crater  and  in  less  time  than  it  takes  to 
tell  it  the  gun  begins  to  fire  like  the  rest. 

The  enemy's  artillery  has  now  changed  its  ob- 
jective. It  now  aims  its  fire  on  the  assaulting 
wave. 

We  return  to  our  shelter.  The  spectacle  Is 
wonderful.  Almost  without  losses,  our  waves 
reach  the  first  of  the  enemy's  lines  and  clear  them 
at  a  bound. 

''  Lengthen  the  fire.  .  .  .  On  the  second  posi- 
tion. .  .  .  Farther  .  .  .  on  the  third;  on  the  for- 
tified emplacement;  to  the  left  of  the  woods. 
.  .   .   Fire,  fire,  fire,  nom  de  Dieu!  " 

The  fire  on  our  sector  begins  again  more  vio- 
[  66  ] 


OUR    FIRST    ENGAGEMENT 

lently  than  ever.  We  have  bothered  the  enemy 
and  he  wants  to  silence  us. 

Three  out  of  four  of  our  guns  are  silent.  The 
fourth,  the  last  one  to  arrive,  with  all  the  rapid- 
ity of  its  fire,  alone  sustains  the  attack  of  our 
infantry.  The  wonderful  little  machine  devours 
without  a  skip  the  endless  munitions  which  the 
crew  have  difficulty  in  bringing  to  it. 

"  Fire,  Adjutant,  fire!  Don't  stop.  Give  it  to 
them,"  shouts  the  lieutenant,  seized  by  the  fever 
of  battle. 

And  the  adjutant  fires,  fires  without  stopping. 
Our  wave  reaches  its  objective,  the  enemy  flees, 
whole  companies  surrender. 

"That's  it;  we  are  there.  Fire  on  the  re- 
serves, farther,  the  length  of  the  embankment. 
Cease  firing,  stop  it,  stop  firing.  We  are  there. 
.  .  .  'Cease  firing!  " 

Just  as  he  shouts  this  order  a  shell,  the  last  one 
—  the  third  on  the  same  spot —  falls,  bursts,  and 
buries  the  gun  and  its  heroic  crew. 

"  M  .  .  .  I  The  swine  I  Can't  they  see  that 
it  is  finished?  " 

Heavily  and  mournfully  we  make  toll  of  the 
dead.  Comrades  pay  their  last  respects  to  their 
[67] 


COVERED  WITH  MUD  AND  GLORY 

comrades.  They  take  their  letters  and  keepsakes, 
and  arrange  the  bodies  for  their  last  resting  place 
as  best  they  can. 

The  order  to  go  back  is  given. 

For  two  hours  we  make  our  way  through  the 
communication  trench,  now  only  a  stream  of  mud 
in  which  we  sink  to  our  ankles. 

We  advance,  dejected,  silent,  heavy  with 
fatigue,  depressed  by  the  thought  of  those  we 
have  left  behind,  whom  we  shall  never  see  again, 
as  was  our  wont,  even  yesterday  at  the  cantonment. 

The  lieutenant  is  in  the  lead,  leaning  on  his 
baton,  silently,  chewing  on  his  eternal  cigarette. 

We  finally  reach  the  end  of  the  trench  at 
Froissy  and  come  out  on  the  main  road. 

In  spite  of  their  long  hours  of  fatigue  and  the 
sleepless  nights,  the  men  suddenly  seem  less  weary. 

They  no  longer  march  one  on  top  of  the 
other,  stepping  over  corpses.  Their  horizon  has 
broadened;  they  see;  they  breathe;  they  come  out 
of  their  trance;  they  emerge  from  Hell,  they  come 
from  death.    They  are  coming  back  to  life ! 

Two  hundred  yards  ahead  we  can  already  see 
groups:   our   mules,    our  limbers,    companies    of 
Territorials  who  are  repairing  the  roads,  sappers 
[68] 


OUR    FIRST    ENGAGEMENT 

from  the  engineer  corps,  men  from  the  field 
kitchens,  automobiles,  dreams  .  .  .  the  living 
world  at  last. 

The  sub-lieutenant  has  remained  at  the  rear  of 
the  column,  assuming  the  difficult  task  of  encour- 
aging the  stragglers  and  keeping  up  the  spirits  of 
the  weak.  Now  he  runs  up  and  down  the  ranks. 
He  Is  proud  of  his  men;  he  loves  their  swagger 
and  steadiness. 

"  Come,  children,  a  little  speed.  Try  to  march 
by  these  people  In  some  style." 

And  as  we  approach  the  first  huts  he  begins  to 
sing  at  the  top  of  his  lungs  his  song,  the  song  of 
the  machine  gun : 

Mais  dans  le  petit  jour  blemi, 

Alerte!    Void  l^ennemil 

Et  t'eveillant  soudain  rageuse. 

Ma  mitrailleuse, 
Avec  tes  tac  tac  reguliers. 
Sans  f  arret er,  noire  et  fumeuse, 

Ma  mitrailleuse. 

Some  of  the  men  look  at  him  In  surprise,  look 
at  him  and  then  begin  to  sing. 

And  this  bruised  troop,  which  had  just  lost 
half  its  effective  strength,  with  its  wounded  men 
with  their  bloody  bandages,  their  torn  clothes, 
[69] 


COVERED  Vv^ITH  MUD  AND  GLORY 

their  arms  in  bits,  filed  by  singing  this  heroic  joy- 
ful song,  expressing  in  their  voices  all  their  hopes 
and  all  their  triumphs. 

It  defiled  between  lines  of  astonished  men  who 
stood  respectful,  stupefied  at  so  much  energy,  so 
much  fire  and  dash  in  the  face  of  so  much  death. 

In  position  before  his  staff,  fingers  together  in 
the  prescribed  position  of  salute,  a  general  stood 
with  bared  head,  while  the  company  marched  by. 


[70] 


CHAPTER   VII 

EASTER   EGGS 

EASTER  —  it  fell  on  April  twenty-third  that 
year  —  dawned  splendidly,  a  real  day  of 
gladsome  spring. 

The  company  was  off  duty.  We  had  worked 
for  a  month  on  the  fortifications  in  the  front-line 
trenches  and  we  deserved  this  fine  day. 

In  addition  the  sector  was  quiet.  There  had  n't 
been  an  engagement  or  a  skirmish  since  February. 
This  large  village  —  more  than  a  village,  a  town 
almost  —  scarcely  five  miles  from  the  Boche  lines, 
absolutely  unprotected,  not  concealed  in  the  slight- 
est by  a  bend  in  the  terrain,  by  a  hill  or  a  wood, 
had  not  received  a  single  shell  in  three  months. 

Of  course  it  is  true  that  the  church,  town  hall 
and  some  factories  were  injured,  but  not  very 
much.  They  had  some  large  shell  holes,  but  they 
had  n't  fallen  in  or  tumbled  down.  The  church 
and  town  hall  still  had  their  roofs,  and  if  the 
chimneys  of  the  sugar  refineries  were  cut  on  the 

[71] 


COVERED  WITH  MUD  AND  GLORY 

bias,  it  was  high  up,  almost  at  the  top,  as  if  they 
wanted  to  blunt  them,  or  spare  them,  or  preserve 
them. 

We  were  now  accustomed  to  this  incompre- 
hensible calm,  in  fact  the  officers  were  often  heard 
to  say, 

"  This  quiet  bodes  no  good  to  us.'' 

All  day  and  nearly  all  night,  too,  we  hear  the 
shriek  of  French  and  Boche  shells  in  the  air.  Bat- 
teries of  heavy  artillery  search  for  their  marks, 
but  all  that  misses  us  and  passes  over  our  heads 
or  strikes  in  front.  We  know  that  they  are  n't 
aimed  at  us,  and  we  take  no  interest  in  them.  So 
with  that  fine  carelessness  of  men  long  since  ac- 
customed to  the  worst  dangers,  we  live  in  absolute 
security. 

That  Easter  morning  a  musical  mass  was  sung 
in  an  immense  great  hall  which  had  been  used  for- 
merly for  entertainments.  A  crowd  of  soldiers  of 
every  branch  of  the  service  and  from  all  the  regi- 
ments encamped  in  the  neighborhood  packed  the 
place.  In  the  crowd  was  a  goodly  number  of  civil- 
ians, including  women  and  girls  who  were  wearing 
their  best  dresses  for  the  first  time  in  a  year. 

The  band  of  the  .  .  .  first  Territorials  played. 
[72] 


EASTER    EGGS 

Someone  beside  me  dared  to  murmur, 

"  All  the  same,  if  a  Boche  shell  fell  In  that 
crowd,  what  a  mess  It  would  be!  " 

"  Don't  think,"  came  from  several  sides  at 
once,  "  about  Boche  shells.  They  fire  them. 
They  know  we  are  here.    They  are  afraid  —  " 

The  chaplain,  assisted  by  two  clerical  stretcher 
bearers,  began  worship  on  the  improvised  altar 
on  the  stage. 

Soldiers  sang  the  psalms  of  the  liturgy. 

I  was  nervous,  and  sobs  came  to  my  throat.  In 
order  not  to  make  a  ridiculous  spectacle  of  myself 
with  my  tears  I  went  out.  I  ran  to  the  canton- 
ment, saddled  my  horse,  and  we  galloped  at  ran- 
dom through  the  sunny  country  on  paths  covered 
with  flowers.  I  stopped  In  the  depths  of  a  valley 
under  the  poplars  and  stretched  out  on  the  grass. 
My  horse  laid  down  beside  me.  And  while  he 
munched  the  grass  entirely  indifferent  to  me,  I 
said: 

"  Kiki,  old  KIkl,  if  an  unexpected  shell  fell  on 

us  now  and  blotted  us  out,  that  would  be  much 

less  disastrous  than  If  It  fell  among  those  who  at 

this  hour  are  praying  In  that  chapel.     They  are 

[73] 


COVERED  WITH  MUD  AND  GLORY 

praying  for  their  far-away  firesides,  their  mothers, 
their  wives. 

"  They  are  praying  for  the  preservation  of  the 
past  and  for  the  future.  They  have  the  joy  of  be- 
heving,  and  that  belief,  that  faith,  has  steeped 
them  in  a  special  life  to  which  they  remain 
attached. 

"  But  we,  old  horse?  If  a  shell  annihilates  us, 
what  of  it? 

"  We  have  never  believed  anything  and  we 
never  will. 

"  I  have  Impressed  my  brutal  scepticism  on  the 
beings  who  are  nearest  and  dearest  to  me.  I 
have  torn  down  the  faith  of  their  cradles  ...  a 
faith  in  the  Beyond. 

^'  So  when  we  shall  be  under  the  sod  sleeping 
our  long  night,  before  next  spring  has  awakened 
its  green  verdure  on  our  remains,  base  and  name- 
less oblivion  will  already  have  overtaken  us.  On 
the  simple  white  cross  my  hastily  traced  name 
will  not  even  be  read.  .  .  . 

"  Perhaps  In  passing  near  my  abandoned  grave 
someone  will  say,  '  Poor  fellow!  '  Perhaps  some- 
one more  sentimental  than  the  rest  will  throw 
flowers  on  It. 

[74] 


EASTER    EGGS 

"  But  in  disappearing,  old  horse,  we  shall  harm 
no  one. 

"  The  tears  on  the  beautiful  eyes  I  know  so  well 
will  at  first  be  bitter,  but  they  will  be  dried  at 
last." 

This  rather  melancholy  monologue  was  not  to 
Kiki's  taste  at  all.  He  interrupted  me  by  whinny- 
ing loudly.    He  knew  it  was  time  for  oats. 

So  we  went  back  to  the  cantonment  under  the 
fine  midday  sun.  Before  our  door  at  the  last 
house  on  the  left,  on  the  road  to  the  sugar  refinery, 
Burette,  the  quartermaster-sergeant,  was  going 
through  his  matutinal  ablutions.  He  generally 
began  them  about  eleven,  just  as  they  were  calling 
dinner,  which  made  him  twenty  minutes  late  and 
gave  him  a  chance  to  growl  about  the  cooking, 
which  was  not  hot  enough  to  suit  him,  or  about 
his  share,  which,  according  to  his  appetite,  was  re- 
duced to  a  proper  allowance. 

Inside,  seated  before  an  open  canteen  which 
served  him  equally  as  a  seat  or  a  writing  desk, 
was  Adjutant  Dotan  reading  and  re-reading  and 
sighing  over  the  letters  he  took  from  a  voluminous 
package  in  front  of  him.  In  a  loud  voice  he 
[75] 


COVERED  WITH  MUD  AND  GLORY 

mused  over  the  problem  which  haunted  his  days 
and  nights : 

"Shall  I  marry?    Or,  shall  I  not?  " 
For  two  years  now  Dotan  had  seen  the  realiza- 
tion of  his  matrimonial  projects  grow  further  and 
further  away  from   week  to  week,  from  month  to 
month. 

On  the  first  leave  the  Regimental  Administra- 
tive Council  had  not  acted  on  his  request.  Then, 
for  two  consecutive  times,  leave  was  stopped  on 
the  day  before  he  was  going  to  go.  And  despite 
the  advice  of  the  colonel,  to  whom  he  told  his 
grievance,  Dotan  would  not  marry  by  proxy. 
This  ceremony  in  partihus,  entrusted  to  a  third 
party,  seemed  to  him  the  least  bit  ridiculous,  and 
he  had  a  well-developed  desire  for  the  whole  of 
the  wedding  ceremonies. 

"Shall  I  marry?  Or,  shall  I  not?  " 
While  he  thought  over  his  dilemma,  he  read 
for  the  hundredth  time  the  letters  from  his  gentle 
fiancee,  who  awaited  him  in  Provence.  And  he 
occupied  the  monotony  of  the  long  hours  In  writ- 
ing her  two  letters  a  day,  one  In  the  morning  and 
another  in  the  evening,  with  sometimes  a  supple- 
mentary postal  card  In  addition. 
[76] 


EASTER    EGGS 

"  To  think  that  If  I  were  married  I  should  have 
already  been  so  happy!  " 

''  Three  days,"  Morin  let  fall  cynically  In  his 
Innocent  voice. 

''  Yes,  I  should  have  been  happy." 

"  Three  days,"  insisted  Morin,  "  the  second 
day  before,  the  day  before,  and  the  day  of  your 
wedding  until  noon.  And  then  you  would  n't  be 
as  you  are  now  —  free,  tranquil,  and  without  a 


care." 


"  Free,  tranquil,  without  a  care !  Oh,  yes,  you 
say.  You  're  always  the  same.  Free,  tranquil 
and  happy !  You  must  have  learned  that  by  look- 
ing out  of  your  window,  you,  say  .   .   ." 

Morin,  In  accordance  with  his  parsimonious  use 
of  words,  did  not  want  to  carry  on  this  tedious 
discussion.  He  would  have  answered,  neverthe- 
less, had  not  Dedouche  announced  that  the  table 
was  set,  and  that  there  was  a  wonderful  menu,  a 
real  Easter  menu. 

Chevalier,  the  mess  corporal,  both  our  Vatel 
and  cup  bearer,  had  come  back  from  leave  the 
day  before.  Before  our  ravished  eyes  he  untied 
his  packages,  spread  out  sumptuous,  epicurean 
dainties,  and  drew  from  their  thick  straw  covers 
[77] 


COVERED  WITH  MUD  AND  GLORY 

generous  bottles  of  wine  whose  very  appearance 
made  us  joyful. 

Morln  had  been  a  constant  guest  at  the  select 
restaurants  of  La  Canneblere  and  at  the  famous 
inns  of  La  Cornlche,  and  Is  an  expert  In  the  art 
of  opening  a  fine  wine  without  shaking  It,  and  he 
also  knows  how  to  carve  roasts  and  chickens  skil- 
fully and  symmetrically. 

He  was  opening  with  suitable  Impresslveness 
an  old  bottle  of  Sauterne,  whose  bright  golden 
color  brought  smiles  to  our  faces,  when  a  tre- 
mendous explosion  brought  us  to  our  feet  and 
threw  down  the  single  partition  In  the  room. 

"  The  gun  back  In  the  garden  draws  the  fire," 
mumbled  Dedouche  with  his  mouth  full,  and  with- 
out letting  go  of  his  plate  which  he  was  rubbing 
carefully  with  a  large  bit  of  bread. 

But  as  he  spoke  a  still  more  violent  explosion 
shattered  all  the  window  panes  In  the  house  to 
bits. 

A  great  Boche  shell  had  fallen  thirty  yards 
from  us  In  the  street  which  had  been  recently 
covered  with  hard  flint  and  which  it  scattered  into 
Innumerable  fragments.  We  heard  the  cries  of 
the  wounded  and  the  dying  outside. 

[78] 


EASTER    EGGS 

"Quick!     Into  the  cellar  I" 

But  none  of  us  lost  our  heads  sufficiently  to 
take  refuge  in  the  cellar  without  our  munitions. 

One  brought  the  fov/1,  another  the  bottles,  a 
third  the  sauce,  and  someone  the  cheese  and 
candles,  and  under  the  threat  of  shots  which 
speeded  us  we  reached  our  underground  shelter. 

The  light  of  two  candles  stuck  in  bottles  showed 
us  the  table  in  the  darkness  and  we  spread  out 
our  dinner  things  anew. 

Above  was  the  bombardment  in  all  Its  intensity. 

Shots  landed  in  the  road  level  with  our  air- 
hole, which,  as  a  provision  against  such  an  oc- 
currence, had  long  since  been  stuffed  with  sand- 
bags. 

We  heard  things  falling  I 

"  Mince!  what  are  they  offering  us  for  Easter 
eggs?" 

This  ready  joke  made  us  laugh,  and  we  forgot 
the  tragedy  of  the  hour.  In  the  heady  anesthesia 
of  real  Pommard,  and  not  christened  "  Pom- 
mard  "  for  use  at  the  front,  but  which  had  a  real 
Burgundlan  bouquet,  we  forgot  that  the  shells 
were  raging  in  all  their  fury  above  us. 

The  shadow  of  a  man  appeared  at  the  entrance 
[79] 


COVERED  WITH  MUD  AND  GLORY 

to  the  cellar.  Illuminated  by  the  wavering  yellow 
lights  of  our  candles,  it  stood  out  in  sharp  con- 
trast in  the  darkness  of  the  staircase. 

"  Is  the  margis  here?  .   .   .  Margis,  the  lieuten- 
ant says  you  are  to  bring  all  the  horses  at  once. 
to  the  gulley  in  the  Caix  woods  and  shelter  them 
from  the  bombardment." 

"  All  right,  I  'm  coming.  Go  on,  Dedouche, 
pour  out  another  glass  of  Pommard.  I  '11  take 
my  dessert  in  my  pocket." 

I  picked  up  my  helmet,  mask  and  cane  and  was 
ready  to  go,  as  I  listened  through  the  vaults  and 
hoped  for  a  let-up  in  the  storm. 

*'  It 's  over.    We  can  go." 

"  When  you  wish,  old  fellow.  They  've  stopped 
for  breath." 

"  You  '11  find  out  in  five  minutes." 

"  Bah!     I  've  more  time  to  go  than  I  need." 

"  Good  luck,  and  if  you  find  any  Easter  eggs 
on  the  way  bring  them  back  for  dinner." 

The  adjutant's  reiterated  joke  no  longer  had 
the  same  zest  for  me  and  it  hardly  made  me 
smile. 

Outside,  the  streets  were  empty,  and  there 
was  n't  a  soul  in  sight. 

[80] 


EASTER    EGGS 

The  bombardment  had  stopped,  but  no  one 
was  taken  In  by  this  deceptive  calm.  From  one 
moment  to  another  we  waited  for  a  new  bom- 
bardment even  more  violent  than  the  first.  The 
Boches  are  creatures  of  habit  and  this  Is  not  the 
first  time  they  've  played  this  trick.  When  they 
bombard  a  cantonment,  they  very  often  interrupt 
their  bombardment  some  minutes  so  as  to  make 
us  think  it  is  over;  then,  when  the  men  have 
ventured  Into  the  streets,  they  suddenly  begin 
again  and  make  fresh  victims. 

A  house  has  fallen  In  the  middle  of  the  road 
some  steps  from  our  cantonment.  Debris  block 
the  way,  and  we  have  to  climb  over  them.  Far- 
ther along,  at  the  other  end  of  the  street,  a  house 
which  was  still  intact  this  morning  is  now  in 
flames. 

There  Is  no  time  to  lose.  Already  several 
shells,  advance  messengers  of  the  coming  storm, 
begin  to  fall.  I  was  about  to  dart  across  the 
Place  when  a  *'  105  "  fell  on  the  pavements  and 
burst. 

A  poor  little  soldier  carrying  two  enormous 
bags,  a  great  bundle  of  linen,  and  some  souvenirs 
In  his  hands  passed  just  then.  He  was  on  his 
[81] 


COVERED  WITH  MUD  AND  GLORY 

way  to  the  station  at  Guillaucourt  to  take  the  train, 
for  he  was  going  on  leave. 

Rejoicing  in  his  approaching  happiness  he 
walked  on  without  paying  the  slightest  attention 
to  this  atmosphere  where  death  was  hovering. 
A  shot  hit  him  in  the  back  and  passed  out  the 
other  side.  I  jumped  to  aid  him.  He  was  bathed 
in  blood.  In  a  gentle,  caressing,  almost  timid 
voice  he  said  to  me : 

*'  Oh,  it 's  not  painful.     I  am  dying." 

And  then  with  his  lips,  with  an  expression  of 
kindness  and  thankfulness  which  I  shall  never 
forget,  he  murmured,  "  Yvonne."  .  .  .  And  his 
face  haloed  with  blessedness  like  the  religious 
images  of  the  martyrs,  he  died. 

I  stood  there  in  ecstasy,  transfixed,  before  that 
beauty  in  death,  before  that  strength  of  love 
which  lights  the  final  hour. 

How  many  I  have  seen  die  in  this  way!  In 
their  last  breaths  all  had  the  name  of  some  woman, 
and  their  eyes  lighted  at  the  name. 

In  the  final  moment  of  a  life  which  is  going 

out  physical    suffering   no   longer   counts.      The 

name  of  the  loved  one  embodies  all  the  vanishing 

mirage  of  the  future,  the  end  of  a  too  beautiful 

[82] 


EASTER    EGGS 

dream,  the  memories  of  a  happy  past  ...  of  a 
happy  past,  for  the  bad  times  are  forgotten. 

Before  the  quivering  body  of  this  poor  little 
soldier,  struck  down  fiercely  just  as  he  was  going 
on  leave,  full  of  hope,  of  plans,  of  dreams,  a 
song  on  his  lips,  I  forgot  the  threatening  shells. 
An  artilleryman  went  by  on  the  run  and  shouted 
at  me: 

"  Get  out  of  that.  You  '11  get  done  up."  And 
I  fled. 

Our  horses  were  bivouacked  in  the  courtyard 
of  a  sawmill.  Not  an  accident  there.  I  counted 
them  all  at  a  glance. 

The  underground  shelter  of  the  men  was  in 
the  back  of  the  yard,  and  I  went  to  the  air-hole 
which  was  stopped  up  by  a  piece  of  sheet-iron 
which  served  as  a  screen  against  splinters. 

"  Oh,  down  there  I  Men  of  the  echelon.  All 
outside.  To  horse.  We  must  hurry.  Come  on, 
hurry  up!  Your  masks,  helm.ets,  forward  with 
just  the  bridle!  " 

One  by  one   they  jumped  out  of  their  lairs, 
grimacing  as  the  bright  sun  struck  them  full  in 
the  face  as  they  came  out  of  the  darkness. 
[83] 


COVERED  WITH  MUD  AND  GLORY 

"  Each  one  two  horses,  by  squads  of  six.  .  .  . 
One  hundred  yards  between  each  squad.  The 
other  men  will  remain  here  and  mobilize  the 
pack  saddles  and  caissons  in  the  cellar.  Take  the 
road  to  the  Caix  station  ....  on  the  road  lined 
with  poplars  ....  On  the  gallop  ....  no 
straggling." 

Some  minutes  later  we  were  already  going  out 
of  the  village.  It  was  a  bad  passage,  but  the 
only  one  and  the  shortest  one  to  reach  our  desti- 
nation, but  three  hundred  yards  had  to  be  cov- 
ered on  entirely  unprotected  ground  opposite  the 
Boches. 

Boom !  It  was  the  expected.  The  shells  began 
to  fall  again.  A  cloud  tinted  with  red  from  the 
tiles  of  a  falling  house  rises  in  the  air  and  makes 
a  large  spot  in  the  sky  back  by  the  church. 

Boom!  There  's  another  one  now  and  nearer 
to  us,  near  the  sugar  refinery. 

A  crash,  an  avalanche  of  bricks;  this  time  it 
is  the  chimney  of  the  sawmill  which  falls  on  the 
horses'  cantonment.  It  was  time,  five  minutes 
sooner  and  we  would  have  been  under  it. 

"  Go  on,  go  on.  .  .  .  Gallop,  for  God's  sake. 
Corporals  .  .  .  keep  the  distances.  .  .  .  Spread 
[84] 


EASTER    EGGS 

out  the  squads.  .  .  .  Get  into  the  fields  .  .  .  be- 
hind the  trees." 

We  reach  the  deep  path  like  a  whirlwind,  while 
the  bombardment  rages  over  the  village  more  than 
ever. 

"Any  accident?  Anyone  hit?  Good.  As- 
semble, and  on  the  trot  now." 

Ten  minutes  later  we  are  in  the  shelter  of 
Muguet  wood,  completely  shut  off  from  the  view 
of  the  Boche  artillery. 

The  wood  deserves  its  name,  for  it  scents  the 
air  a  hundred  yards  about  with  the  perfume  of 
violets  and  lilies  of  the  valley,  which  form  a  car- 
pet between  the  trees  and  which  our  mules,  en- 
tirely insensible  to  the  subtle  beauties  of  nature, 
begin  to  eat  as  though  they  were  common  fodder. 

"  Corporals  .  .  .  look  to  your  sections.  .  .  . 
Is  everyone  here?  .  .   .  All  the  horses  too?  " 

I  cast  a  rapid  glance  over  the  parked  beasts. 

"  Look,  Liniers,  where  is  Chocolate?  " 

And  indeed  where  was  Chocolate? 

How  did  it  happen  that  Chocolate  was  n't 
there  ? 

Still  he  had  been  with  the  rest  at  the  sawmill. 

Chocolate,  as  the  veteran  of  the  echelon,  re- 
[85] 


COVERED  WITH  MUD  AND  GLORY 

ceived  special  consideration  from  the  men.  As 
far  as  the  dispositions  of  the  cantonment  per- 
mitted, they  reserved  for  him  a  covered  shelter, 
a  feeding  rack,  and  a  manger. 

This  time  the  sawmill  offered  many  resources. 
The  stable  walls  still  stood  with  only  a  few  gaps, 
and  the  roof  was  still  intact.  Beside  some  artil- 
lery horses,  who  were  generally  absent,  there  was 
an  available  place  and  they  had  given  it  to  Choco- 
late.   And  there  the  drivers  had  forgotten  him. 

If  it  had  been  any  other  animal  we  would  have 
let  him  go,  but  Chocolate  was  an  entirely  different 
matter  and  we  must  go  and  find  him. 

"  Raynal,  I  hand  over  the  command  of  the 
detachment  to  you.  Liniers,  come  with  me,  we  '11 
go  and  find  Chocolate." 

We  went  back  over  the  path,  on  foot  this  time, 
but  as  fast  as  our  legs  would  go.  As  we  reached 
the  village  the  intensity  of  the  bombardment 
seemed  to  decrease.  Were  we  going  to  be  lucky 
enough  to  strike  another  lull?  Again  there 
were  particularly  violent  explosions,  nearer,  then 
nothing  more. 

We  reached  the  village  entirely  out  of  breath. 

As  we  turned  into  the  street  which  led  to  the 
[86] 


EASTER    EGGS 

sawmill  Linlers  stopped  suddenly,  as  If  petrified, 
and  began  to  wave  his  hands. 

"M  .  .  .!" 

''What?" 

"  The  shed.  .  .  r 

"  Well,  what  about  the  shed?  " 

"Demolished.     Can't  you  see?'    It's  gone." 

We  ran  still  faster. 

The  shed  was  absolutely  demolished  and  Is 
now  only  a  shapeless  mass  of  rubbish,  but  there 
are  no  signs  of  a  shell  —  no  traces  of  burned 
timbers,  no  splinters.  One  would  have  thought 
that  It  had  folded  up  and  laid  down  on  Its  side 
like  a  house  of  cards. 

When  we  reached  the  shed  we  saw  Chocolate's 
great  neck  and  shoulders  and  enormous  head  free 
from  the  rubbish  which  hid  the  rest  of  his  body. 
He  was  stretched  out  full  length  on  his  side, 
browsing  serenely  on  the  young  shoots  of  an 
apple  tree,  which  had  gone  down  with  the  build- 
ing. His  large  eye  looked  us  over  as  we  stood 
there,  overcome  and  absolutely  stupefied  with 
amazement,  as  much  as  to  say: 

"  What  .  .  .  you  've   come   at   last  .  .  .  you 
need  n't  have  been  In  so  much  of  a  hurry." 
[87] 


COVERED  WITH  MUD  AND  GLORY 

I  ran  to  the  air-hole  of  the  cellar. 

"  Hey  there,  men  with  spades;  quick,  come,  dig 
out  Chocolate." 

"  Dig  out  Chocolate!  "  and  they  all  rushed  out 
utterly  surprised  by  the  announcement  of  such  a 
job. 

The  bricks  were  scattered  with  a  few  blows  of 
the  shovels,  the  beams  raised,  and  the  place  cleared 
away. 

With  all  the  ease  of  a  circus  horse  who  has 
been  playing  dead.  Chocolate  stretched  out  his 
front  feet,  then  his  hind  ones,  balanced  himself 
two  or  three  times,  took  a  spring,  and  without 
the  slightest  hurry  stood  up,  shaking  himself  all 
over  like  a  dog  coming  out  of  the  water. 

There  were  a  few  scratches  on  his  hide,  but  it 
was  an  old  hide,  hard  and  tanned,  which  resists 
everything.  Nothing  broken !  Brave  Chocolate, 
come  on !  The  men  all  look  at  him,  admire  him, 
and  fondle  him.  He  seemed  somewhat  surprised 
by  such  manifestations  of  great  affection. 

And  without  a  care  in  the  world  for  the  bom- 
bardment which  was  beginning  again,  he  went  to 
the  nearby  pond  and  drank  deeply. 

[88] 


CHAPTER    VIII 

THE   AEROPLANE 

DAWN  had  just  broken.  Some  of  the  bold- 
est of  the  men  In  the  echelon  were  already 
up,  rubbing  down  their  horses  and  adjusting  the 
breast  collars.  At  daylight  we  had  to  go  a  long  way 
to  exchange  the  pack-saddles  for  munition-wagons. 

This  has  been  the  way  from  the  start.  The 
companies  of  machine  guns,  probably  even  more 
than  the  other  branches  of  service,  although  I 
don't  know,  are  experiment  stations  on  which  they 
try  one  sort  of  gear  one  day  and  another  the  next. 
First  it  is  a  round  shield,  then  a  square  shield, 
and  then  a  periscope.  We  adopted  the  Wikers 
saddle,  only  to  have  it  replaced  with  the  Hotch- 
kiss.  And  we  had  scarcely  put  it  in  service  than 
it  was  withdrawn  to  give  us  ammunition  wagons. 

These  changes  are  one  of  the  slight  distractions 
of  the  trade.     They  must  distract  still  more  the 
handlers  of  the  public  funds  to  judge  by  the  fre- 
quency they  offer  them  to  us. 
[89] 


COVERED  WITH  MUD  AND  GLORY 

But  what  difference  does  it  make  to  us  whether 
we  do  one  thing  or  another?  While  we  wait  time 
passes  and  the  war  goes  on. 

And  then  "  there  's  no  use  trying  to  understand.'* 

That  Is  the  typical  expression  in  every  army. 
Before  the  most  unexpected  orders,  the  most  un- 
usual, which  seem  the  most  useless  and  Incoherent, 
we  can  only  bow  without  trying  to  use  our  In- 
telligence. 

*'  There  is  no  use  in  trying  to  understand." 
That 's  the  whole  secret  of  discipline.  If  one  did 
try  to  understand,  he  would  never  obey  —  or  too 
late. 

We  were  ordered  to  assemble  on  the  Place  at 
daybreak,  and  at  daybreak  we  were  there.  The 
clear  sky  is  splendidly  luminous. 

"  Good  weather  for  aeroplanes,"  said  someone. 

Indeed  it  was  good  weather  for  aeroplanes, 
for  there  was  n't  a  cloud  In  the  sky  and  no  mist 
on  the  ground.  A  reconnaissance  in  such  weather 
should  be  easy. 

The  Boche  aviators  are  early  birds.  One  sees 
them  but  rarely  during  the  daytime,  when  ours 
mount  guard  on  the  lines,  but  their  specialty  is 
[90] 


THE    AEROPLANE 

getting  up  early  In  the  morning.  We  hear  them 
flying  over  our  cantonments  long  before  daybreak, 
at  the  first  rays  of  dawn,  and  see  them  returning 
rapidly  to  shelter  as  soon  as  the  light  becomes 
clearer  and  It  becomes  easier  to  fire  our  cannon 
and  machine  guns. 

Presently,  as  I  am  giving  a  final  Inspection  to 
the  material  we  are  to  turn  In,  I  meet  Sergeant 
Lace  In  the  yard  of  the  sawmill. 

*'  Oh,  but  you  're  an  early  bird  to-day." 

"  I  Ve  just  been  ordered  to  find  a  good  place 
to  fire  on  aeroplanes  and  take  up  my  position  there 
at  once.  There  's  going  to  be  a  section  there 
each  day.     Mine  starts." 

"  Have  you  found  your  emplacement?  " 

"  Not  yet.  But  that 's  not  hard  to  find.  Just 
a  hole  or  a  sloping  place,  so  that  we  can  stretch 
out  on  our  backs." 

"  I  know  just  the  place  for  you.  The  hole 
of  a  *  320  '  at  the  entrance  of  the  village  on  the 
left,  near  the  poplars.  You  '11  see  It  right  up 
against  the  fence  which  borders  the  road  from 
Calx." 

"  Wonderful.     I  '11  take  up  my  position  there. 
It  must  have  been  dug  expressly  for  me." 
[91] 


COVERED  WITH  MUD  AND  GLORY 

A  half  hour  later  the  cavalry  of  the  three 
machme-gun  companies  of  the  regiment  assembled 
in  front  of  the  church. 

Cavalry!  ... 

My  good  comrade,  Roudon,  a  sergeant-major 
in  the  Hussars,  who  is  now  with  the  first  company 
of  machine  guns  in  a  position  like  mine,  becomes 
furiously  angry  every  time  he  hears  that  word 
''  cavalry.'' 

"  Cavalry !  Cavalry !  "  he  roars.  "  You  ought 
to  say  an  assery,  a  mulery.  Just  look  at  them. 
Not  one  in  ten  stands  up  on  his  feet.  And  the 
riders !  There  is  n't  one  who  could  ride  a  horse. 
They  're  afraid!  " 

Roudon  is  an  experienced  cavalryman.  For  ten 
years  he  knew  the  mad,  intoxicating  dashes  with 
the  Algerian  contingents  in  Morocco,  the  mysteri- 
ous attractions  of  reconnaissances  in  the  long 
reaches  of  the  valleys  of  the  Sahara,  impetuous 
charges  and  wild  triumphant  pursuits  among  the 
red  Spahis  with  their  Damascus  swords,  amid  the 
glistening  sands  which  rise  toward  the  sun  in 
golden  spangles.  At  the  beginning  of  the  war 
he  was  thrown  into  a  regiment  of  metropolitan 
cavalry  and  fought  in  Lorraine  and  Belgium.  He 
[92] 


THE    AEROPLANE 

lived  through  the  horrible  hours  of  retreat,  as- 
suming the  perilous  mission  of  rearguard  while 
the  other  regiments  withdrew  in  good  order.  He 
fought  on  foot,  in  the  edges  of  woods,  to  stop 
to  the  last  moment  the  march  of  the  enemy  while 
the  rear  went  on  to  the  Marne.  He  endured 
those  long,  seemingly  endless,  waits  on  foot  in 
front  of  his  horse,  the  bridle  on  his  arm,  saber 
in  scabbard,  under  the  storm  of  shells  and  the 
invisible  menace  of  bullets.  There  were  no 
trenches  then. 

Roudon  is  a  cavalryman  in  his  soul  and  his  love 
for  the  service.  So,  attached  to  an  improvised 
service  which  is  neither  cavalry,  artillery,  nor  in- 
fantry, he  does  not  know  what  to  make  of  it, 
and  he  rages  at  it  through  his  excess  of  conscience 
and  too  exclusive  love  of  duty  perfectly  done. 

The  echelon  of  the  third  company  arrives  on 
the  Place  in  good  order  a  few  seconds  after  us. 
Hemin  leads  it  and  he  m.arches  on  foot  beside  his 
column,  hands  in  his  pockets,  whistling. 

Hemin  is  a  type,  and  not  the  least  interesting 
among  the  complex  personalities  of  our  command, 
for  we  are  cavalrymen  transformed  Into  Infantry, 
but  we  're  still  cavalrymen  just  the  same. 
[93] 


COVERED  WITH  MUD  AND  GLORY 

Hemin  is  as  much  a  cavalryman  by  trade  as 
Roudon,  and  perhaps  even  more  so.  He  was 
successively  a  stable  boy  in  a  racing  stable  at 
Chantilly,  then  a  jockey,  and  finally  a  trainer, 
after  he  had  done  his  military  service  in  a  regi- 
ment of  chasseurs.  So  he  is  a  horseman  par  ex- 
cellence. But  he  never  made  war  as  a  cavalry- 
man before.  Since  the  beginning  of  the  war  he 
has  been  attached  to  various  services.  First,  he 
was  an  infantry  scout,  a  standard  bearer  for  a 
general,  a  courier  for  a  major,  and  he  was  trans- 
ferred to  the  companies  of  machine  guns  when 
they  were  definitely  established.  Hemin  has  a 
style  all  his  own.  To  all  appearances  he  is  neither 
a  cavalryman  nor  a  foot  soldier.  His  jacket  is 
a  Colonial  one  with  anchors  and  cuff-facings,  but 
it  has  white  stripes.  He  wears  great  yellow  boots, 
a  cavalryman's  spurs,  his  breeches  are  reinforced 
with  olive  leather,  and  his  head  is  covered  with 
a  very  small  black  cap.  Another  curious  char- 
acteristic is  that  Hemin,  the  excellent  horseman, 
always  walks  when  he  accompanies  his  detachment. 

When  we  are  assembled,  we  turn  the  command 
of  the  detachment  over  to  Roudon,  the  senior 
[94] 


THE    AEROPLANE 

officer,  and  he  leads  the  way.    Hemin  and  I  bring 
up  the  rear  some  distance  back. 

In  files  of  two  our  one  hundred  and  fifty  horses 
and  mules  form  a  long  column,  unwieldy  and 
slow,  which  winds  along  the  road. 

"  A  fine  target  for  an  aeroplane  I  " 

This  exclamation  had  hardly  been  uttered  when 
the  well-known  roar  of  a  Boche  aeroplane  was 
heard  over  our  heads. 

"Zut!  there's  one.  .  .  .  We  ought  to  have 
expected  it  in  such  weather  and  started  earlier. 
Look  out,  if  he  spots  us.  Don't  worry,  there  's 
no  danger,  he  's  too  high.  ...  At  least  three 
thousand." 

A  *'  75  "  was  already  weaving  around  this 
scarcely  visible,  extremely  mobile  target  the  white 
tuffs  of  its  shrapnel,  and  threw  around  the  ma- 
chine a  murderous  circle  which  followed  it  in  its 
evolutions.  But  the  aeroplane  in  the  air  seemed 
to  care  little  and  it  continued  on  its  way. 

We  all  followed  the  vicissitudes  of  the  fight  as 
we  went  along,  heads  in  the  air.  When  a  shell 
seemed  to  burst  very  near,  an  exclamation  came 
from  every  mouth. 

"Oh!  .   .   .  that  did  n't  miss  much." 
[95] 


COVERED  WITH  MUD  AND  GLORY 

"A  little  more  to  the  left;  that  would  get 
him." 

"  Oh,  that  missed.  ...  He  's  too  far." 

*' This  Is  outrageous  .  .  .  he's  gone  .  .  .  he's 
getting  away." 

And  as  a  matter  of  fact  the  aeroplane  gets  away 
.  .  .  outside  the  "  75's  "  field  of  fire.  It  guides 
Itself  no  doubt  by  the  white  ribbon  of  the  road 
which  shows  clearly  against  the  rich  green  of  the 
pastures. 

He  has  seen  us  now.  He  has  seen  us  crawling, 
winding  and  unrolling  on  the  ribbon.  He  heads 
straight  for  us,  circling  around  in  circles  of  which 
we  are  without  a  doubt  the  center,  and  gradually 
comes  lower. 

"  Look  out  for  the  bombs." 

*'  No  .  .  .  he  's  half  turned  ...  he  's  going 
back." 

''  Going  back.  ...  You  '11  see." 

He  's  lower  now  and  we  can  see  distinctly  the 
great  black  crosses  under  his  wings. 

All  our  men  are  looking.  The  horses  seem  to 
scent  the  danger,  for  they  prick  up  their  ears  and 
paw  the  ground,  while  the  mules  neigh. 

Suddenly  from  on  high  something  begins  to 
[96] 


THE    AEROPLANE 

glide  along  some  aerial  rail  and  shatters  the  air 
above  us.  That  lasts  a  second,  a  flash.  As  we 
listen  and  wait  one  would  have  said  that  It  falls 
slowly  and  for  hours.  We  look  In  the  direction 
of  the  noise  as  If  to  see  something,  as  if  to  see 
where  the  bombardment  Is  going  to  fall.  It  seems 
like  a  linked  chain  which  rolls  out,  clashing  its 
links  against  each  other. 

A  tremendous  boom,  and  black  smoke,  greenish 
and  red  as  well,  blacker,  denser,  thicker  than  that 
from  the  great  shells,  rises  In  the  middle  of  the 
field  a  hundred  and  fifty  yards  on  our  right. 

And  there  is  another.  It  bursts  on  our  left  at 
the  same  distance.  He  is  certainly  searching  for 
the  range.  Will  the  next  strike  In  the  middle  and 
right  on  the  mark?  We  're  a  fine  mark,  to  be 
sure,  a  fine  target,  —  one  hundred  and  fifty  horses 
in  Indian  file.  If  he  does  n't  make  a  good  shot 
he  's  a  duffer. 

Roudon  stands  up  In  his  stirrups,  turns  around, 
and  shouts  commands  to  the  uneasy  men : 

"  Close  up,  close  up,  close  up,  I  say.  .  .  .  Dress 
up  together." 

He  leads  the  column  rapidly,  now  closed  up  Into 
a  compact  group  like  a  flock  of  sheep,  towards 
[97] 


COVERED  WITH  MUD  AND  GLORY 

the  road  from  Harbonnleres,  which  Is  lined  with 
trees  that  will  conceal  us  from  the  aeroplane. 

Two  other  bombs  burst  behind  us  one  after 
another. 

"  That  makes  four.  He  can't  have  many  left. 
He  did  n't  bring  a  truck!  " 

Some  hundred  yards  away  near  a  pond  cows 
graze  absolutely  indifferent  to  the  battle  in  the  air. 
The  "75"  againbeginstofire.  Its  bursts  of  shrap- 
nel come  close  to  the  aeroplane  but  do  not  hit  it. 

Another  bomb.  I  stop.  It  looks  as  though 
it  were  going  to  fall  in  front  of  us.  I  'm  not  going 
to  put  my  head  under  the  knife.  So  I  start  to 
draw  my  horse  back  under  the  trees. 

There  it  is.  It  has  fallen  in  the  fields  again. 
But  its  explosion  throws  up  dismal  fragments, 
large  and  bloody  ones.  It  fell  squarely  on  the 
herd  of  cows  and  annihilated  it. 

"  The  bungler !  He  's  wasting  the  milk,"  comes 
in  the  accent  of  the  faubourgs  nearly  under  my 
horse's  feet. 

Hard  by,  in  the  hole  of  the  ''  320,"  Lace's  half- 
section  has  placed  its  battery.  I  had  approached 
it  without  seeing  it  as  I  drew  back  under  the  threat 
of  the  bomb. 

[98] 


THE    AEROPLANE 

"  Say,  how  long  are  you  going  to  let  him  do 
that?"  I  ask. 

"Let  him  do  it!  .  .  .  You  don't  mean  that, 
Margis.  He  won't  blow  on  his  sauerkraut  this 
evening." 

"  Wait  and  see  what  sort  of  a  menu  we  're  going 
to  serve  that  ace." 

It  was  Grizard,  an  actor  in  the  suburban 
theaters,  speaking.  He  looks  like  the  best  natured 
and  quietest  of  men,  but  he  is  a  pitiless  pointer 
who  never  lets  his  prey  escape. 

"  Let  me  play  a  little,  Margis.  See  how  pretty 
he  Is,  how  fine,  and  how  well  he  flies.  It  is  too 
bad,  a  pretty  little  canary  like  that." 

*'  Ah !  Attention,  ladies  and  gentlemen.  Two 
turns,  and  at  three  we  will  commence.  You  '11  see 
what  you  will  see." 

"  On  with  the  music." 

And  the  music  begins  the  dance.  First,  come 
slow  shots,  rhythmic  and  irregular  tac-tacs,  spaced 
like  the  prelude  to  a  slow  waltz.  Grizard 
is  searching  for  the  tune;  then,  gradually,  he 
accelerates  the  time,  and  the  tac-tac  becomes 
faster. 

Now  he  has  the  aeroplane  in  his  field  of  fire 
[99] 


COVERED  WITH  MUD  AND  GLORY 

.  .  .  the  bullets  dance  around  him  in  a  ring  of 
fire,  without  a  break  .  .  .  the  dance  of  death ! 

And  the  circle  grows  narrower  and  narrower, 
infernal,  pitiless. 

Everyone  looks ;  there  is  nothing  to  see  up  there ; 
bullets  are  elusive  and  invisible,  but  we  make  out 
the  drama. 

From  his  rapid  evolutions,  his  sharp  darts  back 
and  forth,  his  irregular  and  hurried  spirals,  we 
understand  that  the  aviator  has  already  been 
reached  but  is  trying  to  baffle  the  fire  which  pur- 
sues him. 

The  tac-tac  continues.  It  is  incessant,  implac- 
able, ferocious.  The  silence  of  death  hovers  over 
men  and  things.  All  Nature  seems  to  await  the 
issue  of  the  combat  which  is  no  longer  doubtful. 

I  look  at  Grizard.  Hand  on  the  handle  of  the 
gun,  he  follows  the  evolutions  of  the  aeroplane; 
his  eyes  shine  as  at  a  good  trick  he  is  playing  on 
the  acrobat  up  there,  and  softly,  with  all  the  de- 
sired expressions,  as  if  he  were  before  his  audi- 
ence at  Belleville  or  at  the  Gaite-Montparnasse, 
he  hums : 

Reve  de  valse,  reve  d'un  ]our, 
Valse  de  reve,  valse  d' amour. 

[  loo] 


THE    AEROPLANE      : 

''  He  's  hit,"  Sergeant  Lace  cries  suddenly. 

And  indeed  he  is  hit. 

The  wings  waver,  bend,  warp,  and  abruptly 
fall  in  a  spiral,  while  an  immense  burst  of  flame, 
which  the  speed  increases  immoderately,  rises  and 
marks  the  limpid  blue  of  the  sky  with  a  long  red 
thread  which  dissolves  in  the  heavens  in  a  trail 
of  gold. 

With  a  noise  of  broken  iron,  tearing  canvas, 
explosions  which  recall  fireworks,  the  machine 
smashes  into  the  fields,  right  where  the  last  bomb 
had  destroyed  the  peaceful  herd  of  cows  a  moment 
ago. 

We  run  from  all  directions,  but  there  is  nothing 
to  see.  The  aeroplane  was  completely  destroyed 
by  the  fall  and  the  fire,  and  ends  by  burning 
Itself  up. 

It  is  impossible  to  get  the  charred  body  of  the 
aviator  out  from  the  smoking  ruins. 

Grizard  is  on  the  scene  with  his  gun  crew,  and 
examines  his  target. 

"Good  shot!" 

We  congratulate  him  and  begin  to  go  back. 
But  Grizard  is  a  comedian  who  knows  his  business 
and  who  has  perhaps  played  a  role  in  the  circuits 
[loi] 


f  (LpVEKED  .WITH  MUD  AND  GLORY 

in  faraway  provinces,  and  he  is  not  a  man  to  miss 
an  effect. 

He  stands  by  the  roadside  in  the  courteous  atti- 
tude of  Cyrano  de  Bergerac  pointing  out  the  way 
to  the  Count  de  Gulche  after  amusing  him  for  a 
quarter  of  an  hour.  And  Grizard,  who  has 
amused  us  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  but  in  an- 
other way,  points  out  the  road  and  says: 

"  The  quarter  of  an  hour  is  past.  Messieurs.  I 
release  you." 


[  102] 


CHAPTER    IX 

DAYS   IN    CANTONMENT 

THE  regiment  is  holding  the  first  line 
trenches  in  front  of  the  La  Vache  woods. 
When  the  company  Is  in  the  lines,  the  echelons, 
the  war  train,  and  the  clerks  remain  behind  in  the 
cantonment  at  Morcourt. 

Morcourt  is  a  delightful  little  village  hidden  in 
the  green  meadows  under  the  poplars  on  the  banks 
of  the  canal  of  the  Somme.  Morcourt  was  once 
a  hamlet  of  one  hundred  and  fifty  houses  and 
their  flower  gardens,  but  to-day  it  is  a  real  village 
where  there  are  crowded  together  a  population 
of  more  than  ten  thousand  men.  More  than 
twenty  thousand  horses  are  bivouacked  In  the 
neighboring  villages  of  Proyart,  Lamotte,  Bayon- 
villers,  which  have  no  water,  and  they  come  to 
Morcourt  twice  a  day  to  dry  up  the  watering 
places. 

Our  quarters  here  are  in  the  open  fields. 
Everybody  can't  have  covered  shelters.  The 
[103] 


COVERED  WITH  MUD  AND  GLORY 

major  of  the  cantonment  showed  us  the  field  and 
said, 

"  Try  to  make  shift  with  that." 

And  we  did. 

Less  than  an  hour  later  the  grass  was  mowed, 
ground  down  by  our  haltered  horses,  who  de- 
voured It  with  their  sharp  teeth. 

Beyond,  on  the  edge  of  the  road,  in  impeccable 
alignment  our  sixteen  ammunition  wagons  are 
parked. 

Behind  are  the  horses,  the  huts  of  the  four  sec- 
tions of  the  echelon,  and  the  war  train. 

And  at  the  end  the  four  large  caissons  of  am- 
munition and  the  munition  wagons. 

Burette  and  Morin,  the  clerks,  cannot  make  a 
simple  tent  do.  More  comfortable  quarters  are 
necessary  for  their  work. 

After  a  day  of  hunting  around  Burette  came 
back  to  camp,  radiant. 

'^  Mon  vieux,  I  Ve  found  something  wonderful. 
We  '11  live  like  princes." 

"  Where  did  you  get  it?  " 

"  Some  fine  people.    It 's  next  to  the  mayor's." 

^^  Mince  f  You  look  well.  Did  they  offer  you 
the  house?  " 

[  104] 


DAYS    IN    CANTONMENT 

*'  You  '11  see.    It 's  better  than  that." 

"  Better  than  that!  " 

We  stamped  our  feet  in  impatience.  Such  a 
windfall  is  worth  while.  If  we  stay  here  a  whole 
month  we  shall  be  well  lodged. 

I  was  already  rejoicing  in  the  thought  of  being 
able  to  build  a  comfortable  bed. 

Saux,  on  whom  devolved  the  delicate  and  most 
often  difficult  care  of  our  getting  moved,  foresaw 
innumerable  conveniences. 

Morin  alone  remained  sceptical.  He  is  that 
temperamentally. 

He  sees  no  good  in  this  north  country.  He  has 
been  morose  ever  since  he  left  Provence,  and 
he  won't  smile  again  until  he  hears  tinkle  in 
his  ravished  ears  the  familiar  evocative  sonorities 
of  Avignon,  Aries,  Miramas,  Le  Pas  des  Lan- 
ders, L'Estaque.  The  sun,  the  blue  sky,  the 
blue  sea ! 

And  how  right  Morin  is ! 

The  sun  exaggerates,  but  in  openness  and 
beauty.  The  fogs  are  deceitful.  .  .  .  Far  better 
to  be  dazzled  than  deceived.  .  .  . 

Morin  distrusts  the  splendid  cantonment  of 
Morcourt.  He  knows  those  at  Proyart,  Chuig- 
[105] 


COVERED  WITH  MUD  AND  GLORY 

nolles,     Minacourt,     Virginy  .  .  .  and     others 
besides.  .  .  . 

Oh,  for  the  commonest  hut,  the  most  modest 
cabin,  ruined  though  it  be  and  sordid,  but  haloed 
in  the  sun,  flooded  with  clear  light,  bathed  in  the 
silver  foliage  of  the  olives,  planted  down  there  on 
the  rocks  of  Pointe-Rouge  or  of  L'Estaque,  be- 
side the  sea,  sheltered  in  the  valleys  of  Camions, 
or  perched  on  the  hills  of  Allauch!  How  much 
better  it  is,  how  much  better  worth  living  in,  than 
the  most  sumptuous  castles  buried  in  the  damp 
forests  where  the  stones  are  green  under  the  moss. 

High  on  a  hill  on  the  road  to  Harbonnieres 
opens  the  courtyard  of  a  farm. 

Burette  leads  us  there  in  triumph.  It  is  his 
discovery.  He  crosses  the  court,  and  opens  ma- 
jestically a  small  low  door,  with  a  barrel  on 
each  side  in  which  stunted  geraniums  vegetate 
miserably. 

It  is  an  old  pig-sty! 

Scraped  and  washed  with  a  lot  of  water,  it  will 
be  habitable.  We  '11  make  something  out  of  it. 
Burette  borrows  a  long  table  and  at  once  covers 
it  with  his  innumerable  account  books.  We  make 
our  beds  against  the  walls. 
[io6] 


DAYS    IN    CANTONMENT 

Thirty  ammunition  caissons  placed  in  double 
rows,  a  mattress  stuffed  with  hay,  a  tent  cloth, 
two  covers  —  that 's  our  camp. 

The  corner  at  the  back  falls  to  Morin.  It  is 
the  longest  way  of  the  room  and  he  can  stretch 
out  his  whole  tall  form  at  his  ease,  which  he  rarely 
finds  it  possible  to  do  in  the  cantonments. 

Night  reserves  various  distractions  for  us. 

First,  the  rats. 

The  rats  descended  from  the  dove-cote  in  a 
dense  horde  and  made  incursions  on  our  haver- 
sacks, in  mad  gallops  over  our  bed  clothes  — 
gigantic  rats  with  interminable  tails ! 

They  used  the  open  space  between  the  beds  as 
their  lists  and  had  real  battles,  biting,  crying  and 
moaning.  The  routed  fugitives  jumped  over 
Morin's  body  to  get  to  shelter  and  he  shivered  in 
terror. 

Burette  decided  to  try  extreme  measures,  for 
hunting  them  with  shoes  has  no  effect.  So  he 
begins  to  sing  one  of  the  most  beautiful  tunes  in 
his  repertoire  called  *'  A  Montparnasse."  It  must 
have  thirty  verses,  all  ending  in  an  interminable 
"  nasse  .  .  .  nasse  .   .  .  nasse." 

It  seems  that  it  was  a  triumph  of  the  boule- 
r  107] 


COVERED  WITH  MUD  AND  GLORY 

vards,  and  no  true  lover  of  songs  should  be  ig- 
norant of  it.     Very  possibly. 

The  rats  must  have  shared  my  opinion,  how- 
ever, for  they  seemed  to  like  the  great  triumph  of 
the  boulevards  only  moderately,  but  they  remained 
quiet  while  the  song  lasted. 

That  song  had  another  virtue,  too.  It  put  me 
to  sleep  and  Burette  as  well.  His  voice  dragged 
more  and  more,  and  grew  more  feeble,  when  a 
terrible  cry  pierced  the  night. 

Morin  shouted  in  terror. 

We  jumped  for  our  electric  lamps. 

Their  dim  rays  brighten  the  darkness. 

Above  Morin's  head,  through  a  hole  in  the  mud 
wall  which  separates  us  from  the  neighboring 
stable,  a  calf — a  young  calf  —  gracious  and 
smiling,  has  stuck  his  great  red  head,  and  has  im- 
printed a  caress  on  the  face  of  our  sleeping  friend 
with  his  milky  tongue. 

*' The  salaud!  He  has  bitten  me,''  grumbled 
Morin,  wiping  off  the  dribble  which  stuck  to  his 
face. 

"  Get  out,  animal." 

But  the  calf  was  insensible  to  this  harsh  invi- 
tation. He  continued  to  endure  the  flashes  from 
[io8] 


DAYS    IN    CANTONMENT 

our  lights  with  a  placid  eye,  and,  drawn  no  doubt 
by  Burette's  song,  which  seemed  to  him  like  fa- 
miliar news,  he  began  to  bellow,  waking  up  the 
whole  stable,  and  the  cows  added  their  powerful 
voices  to  that  of  their  offspring.  .  .  .  We  slept 
no  more  that  night. 

The  days  which  followed  were  not  all  exactly 
alike. 

The  lieutenant  sent  us  word  by  a  cyclist  to  come 
and  see  him  in  the  lines  and  get  the  list  of  changes 
to  be  made  among  the  men  and  horses. 

We  started  at  daylight  and  went  in  the  com- 
pany wagon  as  far  as  Froissy.  When  we  got 
there,  Morin  told  me  that  he  knew  a  wonderful 
short  cut  which  avoided  the  great  detour  by  Eclu- 
sler,  and  led  directly  to  the  communication  trench. 
Walking  in  the  wet  meadows  where  we  sank  In 
up  to  our  ankles  had  little  attraction  for  me.  I 
preferred  the  hard  highway  and  the  towpath,  but 
Morin  knew  the  country  and  claimed  that  we 
would  only  have  several  hundred  yards  of  bad 
walking  and  then  we  would  reach  a  practicable 
path. 

We  walked  more  than  an  hour.  The  fog  grew 
[  109] 


COVERED  WITH  MUD  AND  GLORY 

thicker  and  thicker,  limiting  our  horizon  to  a  few 
steps.    There  was  never  anyone  in  sight. 

"  My  dear  Morin,"  I  said,  "  if  your  short  cut 
is  as  wonderful  as  you  say,  it  must  be  known.  But 
at  the  moment  it  seems  somewhat  deserted  to  me." 

Morin  did  not  reply.  There  was  no  doubt  that 
he  was  n't  certain  of  his  way,  but  he  did  not  dare 
to  admit  his  mistake. 

The  weather  inclined  one  to  melancholy. 

We  walked  on  in  silence.  The  path  was  very 
narrow  and  we  were  obliged  to  walk  one  behind 
the  other. 

A  sinister  grumbling  seemed  to  shatter  the 
heavens  above  the  fog. 

Instinctively  we  hurled  ourselves  to  the  ground 
into  the  wet  grass  and  mud. 

The  shell  passed  over  us  and  buried  itself  in  the 
ground  without  exploding. 

"  This  quarter  hardly  seems  the  safest  in  the 
world,  Morin." 

"  They  're  firing  on  the  battery  of  '  75's  '." 

"A  battery  of  '75's'?  What  battery?  .  .  . 
Where  have  you  seen  a  battery?  " 

Although  he  was  seriously  disturbed  about  our 
direction,  Morin  would  not  budge, 
[no] 


5   5,5         5 


>  5     3   J  J     5       3 


DAYS    IN    CANTONMENT 

"  It  was  there  day  before  yesterday.  It  must 
have  moved." 

"  I  suppose  you  're  sure  your  short  cut  has  n't 
changed  its  place." 

I  had  scarcely  spoken  when  a  shell  followed  the 
direction  of  the  first  and  exploded  beside  us, 
throwing  up  a  mass  of  mud,  grass  and  water. 
The  ground  was  soft  and  unfavorable  for  deadly 
splinters.  In  any  other  terrain  we  would  have 
been  hit  seriously. 

This  time  Morin  hesitated, 
"  I  'm  afraid  I  'm  mistaken!   .   .   ." 
"  I  was  sure  of  it  a  long  time  ago." 
"Let's  go  on  just  the  same;  this  must  bring 
us  out  somewhere." 

"  That 's  my  opinion,  too." 
The  fog  was  still  heavy.  We  walked  in  a  cloud 
the  length  of  an  interminable  trench  recently  cut 
in  the  clay.  The  bottom  was  full  of  water.  It 
leads  us  in  an  unknown  direction.  How  can  we 
find  out  what  way  we  are  going?  Where  are  we? 
We  follow  its  windings  for  half  an  hour  and 
clamber  over  crossings.  Perhaps  we  're  going 
around  in  a  circle.  The  mist  is  about  us  all  the 
time.  We  can  see  nothing.  Not  a  landmark. 
[Ill] 


COVERED  WITH  MUD  AND  GLORY 

In  the  distance  far  to  the  north,  in  the  English 
sector,  a  heavy  gun  hammers  the  air  with  loud 
regular  shots.  We  started  out  at  daybreak  to 
go  ten  miles.  It  is  ten  o'clock  now  and  we  have 
no  idea  where  we  are. 

I  get  impatient  and  begin  to  grumble. 

The  air  becomes  fresher,  and  a  fairly  strong 
breeze  comes  up.  In  a  few  seconds  the  blue  sky 
reappears  above  our  heads. 

In  front  of  us  forms  stand  out  —  trees,  shat- 
tered trees,  stretching  their  dead  branches  like 
broken  arms,  and  seeming  to  cry  to  heaven  in  en- 
treaty for  the  martyred  earth. 

"  The  La  Vache  woods!  " 

We  are  in  the  La  Vache  woods  within  sight  of 
the  enemy's  lines.  Thirty  yards  from  them !  We 
are  on  the  further  side  of  the  trenches,  where  the 
terrific  storm  of  shells  rages  daily.  We  have  the 
honor  of  being  the  finest  target  that  will  ever  be 
offered  for  a  shot  with  a  grenade. 

We  throw  ourselves  flat,  but  the  embankment 
overhangs  the  lines  so  much  that  even  crawling  is 
only  a  moderate  safeguard. 

"Nom  de  Dieu  !  I  '11  remember  your  short  cut! 
To  go  to  the  Boches  it 's  the  best  ever!  .  .  ." 

[112] 


DAYS    IN    CANTONMENT 

We  slide  along  on  elbows,  stomach  and  knees 
like  snakes,  which  puts  our  clothes  to  a  severe  test. 
And  we  let  ourselves  fall  head  first  into  the  "  Ser- 
vian "  trench,  just  over  the  lieutenant's  sap,  who 
cannot  believe  his  eyes  when  he  sees  us  fall  as 
from  the  moon. 

"  Where  did  you  come  from?  " 

"  We  've  been  taking  a  walk  in  the  La  Vache 
woods.     Does  that  mean  anything  to  you?  " 

"  How  did  you  come?  " 

"By  a  short  cut!  ...  a  fine  short  cut,  you 
know.     I  recommend  it  to  you!  " 

Sub-Lieutenant  Delpos  was  making  his  rounds 
in  the  sector  and  was  told  of  the  exploit.  He  is 
nervous  and  in  a  murderous  humor,  for  he  spent 
a  sleepless  night  on  a  special  mission  between  the 
lines.  So  Morin  caught  it  a  hundred  times  worse 
than  he  deserved.  Sub-Lieutenant  Delpos's  mo- 
ments of  ill  humor  are,  like  some  storms,  violent 
but  quickly  over.  The  adventure  ended  with  an 
excellent  cup  of  coffee,  flavored  with  XXX  brandy, 
which  he  offers  us  in  his  sap,  sumptuously  fur- 
nished with  every  possible  comfort,  twelve  yards 
underground. 

Towards  midnight  I  went  down  to  Eclusier 
[113] 


COVERED  WITH  MUD  AND  GLORY 

through  an  English  observation  trench.  It  is  only 
accessible  at  night.  In  the  daytime  a  Boche  ma- 
chine gun  is  placed  on  the  other  side  of  the  Somme 
and  enfilades  it.  It  is  suicide  to  venture  there. 
Cut  out  of  the  rock  in  the  hillside,  its  ridges  are 
short  and  steep.  It  is  a  bad  trench,  but  an  impor- 
tant short  cut.  .  .  .  Saux  should  be  waiting  for 
me  with  the  horses  in  a  ruined  house  behind  the 
church. 

Eclusier  is  a  hamlet  on  the  left  side  of  the  canal. 
There  is  a  single  street  with  ragged  houses  on  each 
side,  but  they  are  not  badly  ruined.  The  church, 
protected  by  a  bend  in  the  cliff,  still  has  its  steeple 
intact  through  some  prodigy  of  equilibrium,  al- 
though the  roof  has  fallen  in.  At  the  side,  in  what 
was  once  the  presbytery,  is  the  regimental  dress- 
ing station. 

Lights  come  and  go. 

Men  are  coming  back  from  fatigue  duty, 
searching  for  their  dugouts  by  feeling  for  them. 
Through  the  air-holes,  from  which  come  odors 
of  cooking,  one  can  see  lighted  cellars. 

I  make  my  way  by  the  aid  of  my  electric  lamp 
through  this  labyrinth  which  was  once  a  street, 
and  I  find  the  house.  I  guess  at  it,  rather,  from 
[114] 


DAYS    IN    CANTONMENT 

the  pawing  of  the  horses,  which  are  nervous  and 
are  pounding  on  the  flagstones.  It  is  an  old 
grocery  and  its  sign  still  reads :  "  Fine  Wines  — 
Desserts  —  Choice  Preserves."  A  ragged  green 
cart  cover  takes  the  place  of  the  door.    I  raise  it. 

A  gust  of  foul  air  hits  me  in  the  face,  and  I  stop 
on  the  threshold  gasping  for  breath.  I  see  Saux 
asleep,  his  head  on  my  saddle,  and  rolled  up  in 
horse  blankets.    Burette  is  asleep  beside  him. 

Burette,  the  quartermaster,  spent  three  months 
in  the  heavy  artillery.  He  is  an  enthusiast  on 
horses,  but  his  equestrian  ability  is  far  from 
equaling  his  love  for  it.  His  style  produces  many 
falls,  but  they  don't  discourage  him. 

I  wake  up  Saux,  who  gets  up  dizzily.  Is  he 
half  drunk,  I  ask  myself.  That 's  not  like  him 
at  all. 

"  Look,  Saux,  what 's  the  matter?  " 

But  Saux  leaned  against  the  partition,  search- 
ing for  the  door  with  his  haggard  eyes.  He 
dashed  outside  seized  by  nausea.  The  noise  woke 
up  Burette,  and  he  too  got  up  with  difficulty. 

*'  Say,  what  have  you  two  been  up  to?  " 

"  Oh,  mon  pauvre  vieux,  I  don't  know,  but  I  'm 
sick." 

[115] 


COVERED  WITH  MUD  AND  GLORY 

"  The  fact  is  there  Is  considerable  of  an  odor 
here ;  you  might  have  found  a  better  .  .  ." 

The  horses  are  troubled  by  it,  too.  Kiki  jumps 
about  and  paws  furiously.  Burette's  and  Saux's 
horses  are  sleeping  heavily  and  their  breathing 
Is  difficult  and  oppressive. 

There  's  something  wrong  somewhere,  although 
the  enemy  has  n't  sent  over  any  gas. 

With  the  aid  of  a  light  we  poke  about  In  the 
dark.  I  see  a  pile  of  canvas  in  the  corner  of  the 
room  which  is  oozing  with  dampness.  I  raise 
the  bottom  of  the  canvas  with  my  stick  and  a 
swarm  of  great  flies  comes  buzzing  out  around  us. 

There  are  the  bodies  of  German  soldiers  aban- 
doned for  no  one  knows  how  long.  Weeks,  per- 
haps; since  the  attack  on  Fries  without  doubt. 
The  blue  swollen  flesh  is  spotted  by  bites  made 
by  the  teeth  of  rats.  They  are  rotting  and  filling 
the  soil  with  purulent  matter. 

With  their  monstrous  faces,  sunken  eyes,  cheeks 
fallen  in,  and  their  mouths  convulsed  by  their  last 
struggles,  they  seem  still  to  shout  with  the  fright 
of  their  last  hours.  Burette  and  Saux  have  slept 
beside  this  charnel-house. 

We  lead  out  the  horses  in  a  hurry  and  saddle 
[ii6] 


DAYS    IN    CANTONMENT 

them  in  the  open  air.  We  gain  the  hard  towpath, 
the  only  practicable  way,  and  go  on  at  a  lively 
pace. 

The  first  light  of  dawn  appears.  At  the  bridge 
at  Eclusier  we  stop  a  minute  before  climbing  into 
the  saddle.  The  Territorials  there  offer  us  a 
cup  of  coffee.  It  warms  us,  for  the  morning  fog 
on  the  Somme  is  always  cold. 

''To  horse!" 

I  decide  to  go  at  a  good  pace  as  far  as  the 
bridge  at  Froissy  and  take  the  lead.  We  must 
get  along  before  the  towpath  is  encumbered  by 
all  the  loafers  of  the  companies  which  are  resting 
in  the  huts  along  the  length  of  the  canal. 

A  battery  of  "  75's  "  in  position  near  the  mili- 
tary cemetery  at  Cappy  is  firing  shells. 

We  pass  very  close  to  some  guns  as  they  are 
starting  off.  Coquet  is  frightened,  jumps,  and 
dashes  into  the  fields,  heading  straight  toward  the 
hedges  of  some  vegetable  gardens. 

"  Attention !    Burette,  pull  on  the  bits." 

"  Don't  be  afraid.     He  knows  me." 

He  knows  him  so  well  that  Burette  had  scarcely 
spoken  than  Coquet  stopped  short  before  the 
fence.  Burette  went  over  alone,  head  first,  and 
[117] 


COVERED  WITH  MUD  AND  GLORY 

landed  in  the  vegetables.  Fortunately,  the  ground 
is  soft,  but  in  hurdling  the  obstacle  he  bumped 
into  some  bushes,  and  gets  an  eye  bruised  and  a 
cheek  scratched. 

"  That 's  nothing.     That 's  all  right,"  he  says. 

He  remounts  his  horse,  laughing  and  singing: 

Ah!  les  p'tits  pois,  les  p'tits  pois, 
C'est  un  legume  ires  tendre. 

He  can  appreciate  them  this  time. 

We  meet  Hemin,  our  comrade  of  the  third 
company  of  machine  guns,  at  Froissy.  He  came 
out  at  dawn  with  orders  from  his  commandant 
and  is  going  back  to  Morcourt,  and  we  go  along 
together. 

Going  from  this  bridge  to  that  at  Mericourt, 
the  towpath  is  almost  deserted.  Hardly  anything 
crosses  our  path  except  some  English  motor- 
cyclists. 

Hemin  is  riding  a  superb  charger,  a  great  long- 
legged,  bright  chestnut,  who  carries  his  head 
proudly  —  a  fine  beast. 

Some  yards  away  from  the  branch  from  Neu- 
ville  marines  from  the  gunboats  have  planted  huts 
along  the  towpath  between  the  poplars. 
[ii8] 


DAYS    IN    CANTONMENT 

The  regular  trot  of  our  horses  sounds  clearly 
along  the  way. 

A  marine  hears  us  and  raises  the  flap  of  his 
tent  to  see  us. 

This  frightens  Hemln's  horse  and  he  jumps  Into 
the  canal. 

Our  comrade  Is  unhorsed  and  disappears  under 
the  water.  We  jump  down.  But  even  before  we 
jump  two  marines  have  plunged  in.  Others  poke 
around  with  poles  in  the  mud  from  a  boat.  In 
an  eddy  a  hand  appears,  then  a  head,  swollen, 
bloody,  crushed. 

Hemin  got  a  blow  from  a  shoe  full  In  the  face 
and  could  not  swim. 

The  body  is  brought  on  to  the  bank. 

A  surgeon  from  the  gunboat  doubles  his  efforts 
in  vain. 

Hemin  Is  dead. 

We  buried  him  in  the  little  cemetery  at  Meri- 
court  one  Sunday  morning. 

It  is  the  ideal  cemetery  of  the  poets,  hidden 

in  green  from  every  sound.     Each  grave  seems 

alone  in  a  thicket  of  lilacs  and  honeysuckle.    No 

scientific  gardening  here;  no  trees  butchered  by 

[119] 


COVERED  WITH  MUD  AND  GLORY 

experts;  no  cultivated  flowers;  no  bombastic  mar- 
bles. The  grass  overruns  the  paths;  the  simple 
flowers  of  the  field  have  blossomed  on  the  graves, 
thus  bringing  in  every  season  the  natural  homage 
which  returning  life  pays  to  the  dead. 

Nature  is  pleased  to  shut  every  sound  from  this 
field  of  rest. 

At  the  end  of  a  lane,  at  the  foot  of  a  willow, 
we  lay  Hemin  to  rest  in  his  last  sleep. 

The  men  of  the  echelon  come,  the  major,  a 
captain,  and  the  officers  who  knew  him  particu- 
larly well.  The  intelligence  officers  of  the  three 
companies  joined  in  buying  a  wreath  and  came 
to  the  services  together. 

Hemin's  captain  speaks  a  few  words.  It  is  not 
the  time  for  a  long  talk,  for  a  simple  touching 
farewell  is  sufficient. 

And  before  he  goes  each  one  throws  in  the 
grave  the  symbolic  bit  of  earth. 

Sad  duty! 

Before  the  grave  is  filled  in  I  drop  over  him 
petals  of  peonies.  .  .  . 

Poor  fellow !  He  is  not  the  most  unfortunate. 
He  is  in  that  luminous  land  of  day  and  knows 
what  we  are  powerless  to  know.  He  has  finished 
[  120] 


DAYS    IN    CANTONMENT 

with  our  poor  human  troubles,  and  on  him  have 
fallen  the  curtains  of  his  last  resting  place. 

But  those  who  are  left,  his  wife,  his  child !  .  .  . 
That  is  where  sorrow  begins.  They  don't  know 
yet,  and  for  a  long  time  they  will  know  nothing 
and  will  live  in  anxiety. 

To-day,  at  the  very  hour  perhaps,  when  we  let 
him  down  in  his  last  resting  place,  his  wife  re- 
ceived the  letter  he  wrote  her  yesterday  morning. 
She  read  this  letter  to  her  child,  this  letter  in 
which  he  announces  his  next  arrival  on  leave, 
where  he  said  to  her, 

"  In  a  week  or  two  I  shall  be  with  you  without 
a  doubt."  He  never  will  be  now,  or,  rather,  he 
is  there  already,  for  the  immaterial  presence  of 
loved  ones  accompanies  us,  if  it  is  true  that  they 
are  loved  and  are  not  forgotten. 

iVnd  pensively,  under  the  fine  rain  which  is 
falling,  we  return  to  our  cantonments. 


[I2I] 


CHAPTER   X 

AN  ORDINARY   FATIGUE    PARTY 

THIS  evening  the  first  section  has  to  go  on 
the  works.  The  men  have  eaten  earlier 
than  usual,  and  they  are  on  the  road  before 
nightfall. 

The  column  remains  in  good  order  to  the  end 
of  the  cantonment,  but  once  across  the  passage 
by  the  knotty  elm  at  Harbonnieres,  it  breaks  ranks. 
Each  one  goes  along  as  he  likes,  talking  or  alone. 

There  is  madness  in  the  air.  We  prefer  an- 
other order  of  things  than  to  spend  one  evening 
out  of  two  in  the  first  line  digging  in  the  mud. 

"  Rather  the  trenches  where  we  can  snooze  in 
peace,"  they  say. 

The  column  trails  along.  Pierron,  the  sergeant 
who  leads  it,  pays  no  attention.  With  Millazo, 
a  tradesman  from  Hanoi  who  has  arrived  just 
recently,  he  talks  of  Indo-China,  of  Saigon,  and 
their  gardens. 

We   had  scarcely   arrived   at  the   end   of  the 

[122] 


AN    ORDINARY    FATIGUE    PARTY 

sunken  road  which  opens  out  on  an  uncovered 
slope  on  top  of  a  ridge  than  a  well-known  whistling 
shatters  space.  Each  of  us  throws  himself  on 
the  ground,  in  a  ditch  behind  a  tree,  and  the  shell 
passes  over  us  in  the  air. 

"  That  was  n't  meant  for  us." 

Then  another,  still  another,  and  dozens  like 
it;  we  count  up  to  sixty. 

"  M  .  .  .  what  are  they  having  at  Proyart  for 
dessert?  " 

That  is  all  the  concern  they  have  about  what 
is  going  on  in  the  rear,  or  about  the  havoc  and 
death  the  bombardment  is  launching  at  this  mo- 
ment on  the  cantonment  where  their  comrades 
live.  That  is  the  egotistical  indifference  which 
long  experience  with  danger  gives,  and  the  con- 
stant contemplation  of  death.  The  column 
marches  along  more  carefully  and  wider  awake, 
concealing  themselves  from  the  view  of  the 
enemy's  aerial  observers  which  are  to  be  seen 
high  on  the  horizon  in  spite  of  the  late  hour  and 
the  twilight  which  has  already  begun  to  grow 
dark. 

"  Do    you     suppose     they  've     forgotten     the 


sausage?  " 


[123] 


COVERED  WITH  MUD  AND  GLORY 

"  Sometimes  they  stay  out  to  give  us  a  shot." 

So  we  wait  until  it  is  very  dark  before  we  reach 
our  position  in  the  works. 

The  place  where  we  have  to  dig  is  in  the  front 
lines.  We  have  to  construct  circular  dugouts  for 
machine  guns,  with  their  rounded  platforms,  and 
to  connect  them  with  the  trench  by  underground 
trenches. 

We  climb  over  the  trench  carrying  our  tools 
in  our  hands  and  slip  between  the  barbed  wire, 
but  we  have  scarcely  gone  a  yard  when  a  heavy 
fusillade  warns  us  that  this  time  we  are  spotted. 
We  dig  in. 

"  Is  anyone  hit?  " 

No  reply,  no  groans;  everyone  is  there,  flat, 
stretched  out.  We  wait  flat  in  the  grass  and  the 
mud  until  the  star  shells  fall,  and  as  soon  as  one 
has,  and  before  the  following  one  has  scaled 
through  space  and  lighted  it  with  its  dim  light,  we 
jump  into  the  hole  which  the  fatigue  party  of 
yesterday  dug. 

But  the  tools  are  n't  idle,  although  we  guess 
rather  than  hear  the  blows  of  the  pick  digging 
in  the  deep  rich  earth  and  the  shovelers  throwing 
[  124] 


AN    ORDINARY    FATIGUE    PARTY 

It  out  as  far  on  the  parapet  as  possible  so  as  not 
to  form  a  salient. 

We  dig  for  hours  without  interruption,  lower- 
ing our  heads  in  the  holes  as  the  star  shells  go 
up,  and  taking  up  our  tasks  as  soon  as  it  is  dark 
again. 

The  enemy  has  discovered  the  time  of  our 
fatigue  parties,  and  to-morrow  it  will  know  the 
exact  position  of  our  work,  so  that  it  will  be 
somewhat  uncomfortable  to  continue.  It  must 
be  finished  to-night. 

A  company  of  Territorials  is  stretching  barbed 
wire  on  our  right. 

Between  each  star  shell  we  can  hear  the  ham- 
mering of  the  sledges  against  the  stakes,  the  strain 
of  the  tension  on  the  wire,  and  when  the  traitor- 
ous light  shines  again  these  wonderful  workers 
don't  even  hide.  They  remain  hanging  on  the 
barbed  wire,  motionless  and  disjointed  like  corpses. 
They  look  so  much  like  them  that  the  enemy 
does  n't  even  fire,  as  he  feels  certain  that  he  has 
annihilated  this  gang  which  heroically  continues 
its  gigantic  task. 

"Look!  .   .  .  they're  like  statues." 
[125] 


COVERED  WITH  MUD  AND  GLORY 

"  One  would  think  it  was  a  party  .  .  .  there 
are  the  lights  and  the  orchestra.'' 

The  time  for  supplying  the  company  in  the  lines 
comes.  The  men  of  the  field  kitchens  come  by 
groups  of  three  or  four  from  the  trenches  just 
behind  us. 

The  first  two  have  a  long  rod  on  their  shoulders 
and  rolls  of  bread  on  this.  Others  carry  in  can- 
vas pails  and  kettles  come  from  nowhere  the  cov- 
eted wine  and  the  aromatic  brandy.  Others  bend 
under  the  weight  of  pots  which  hold  lumpy  black 
bean  soup,  which  splashes  out  at  every  jolt  in  the 
path.  It  is  already  cold  and  greasy.  Finally,  the 
mess  corporal  reaches  the  end  of  his  trip  and 
draws  out  of  his  sack  the  desserts  bought  with 
the  mess  balance  and  the  commissions  given  to 
him  the  day  before  by  the  men  in  the  trenches. 
The  pockets  of  his  jackets  are  full  of  letters  he 
has  just  received  from  the  officer  with  the  mail, 
and  which  he  delivers  to  the  men  who  have  been 
waiting  for  them  hungrily. 

When  he  gets  as  far  as  the  fatigue  party  he 

stops  and  hesitates.     He  must  go  over  a  space 

of  fifty  yards,   absolutely  exposed,  to  the  edge 

of   a  group  of  trees  where  there   is   a  first-line 

[126] 


AN    ORDINARY    FATIGUE    PARTY 

trench  taken  from  the  Boches  In  the  last  attack 
and  not  yet  connected  with  the  communication 
trench. 

He  has  reason  for  his  hesitation,  for  the  last 
two  days  the  Boche  trench  on  our  left  has  been 
firing  on  it  heavily. 

Day  before  yesterday  an  entire  fatigue  party 
was  killed.  We  can  see  there  in  front  of  us  the 
abandoned  sacks  and  scattered  packages.  Five 
men  out  of  eight  were  killed  yesterday.  The 
others  were  able  to  get  over  some  of  the  provi- 
sions and  the  bad  news  by  crawling,  and  at  the 
price  of  a  thousand  risks.  They  also  took  the 
rest  of  the  provisions  from  the  bodies  of  their 
comrades  who  carried  them.  To-day  they  ad- 
vanced the  time  of  bringing  the  supplies  an  hour 
in  order  to  foil  the  enemy's  vigilance.  This  time 
the  mess  corporal  accompanied  the  fatigue  party 
himself  to  discover.  If  possible,  a  less  perilous 
mode  of  communication.  But  the  Boches  must 
have  been  on  the  watch,  or  guessed  or  got  wind 
of  it  somehow.  The  star  shells  now  follow  each 
other  with  no  let-up,  lighting  up  the  road  so  that 
one  can't  venture  on  it.  Under  this  too  persistent 
light  the  Territorials  abandon  their  simulation  of 
[127] 


COVERED  WITH  MUD  AND  GLORY 

corpses  and  seek  shelter  in  the  trench  to  which 
we  are  getting  ready  to  return. 

It  is  necessary  for  the  supplies  to  go  on.  The 
company  in  the  front  line  has  had  only  insufficient 
provisions  for  two  days. 

The  mess  corporal  is  a  brave  man  and  makes 
several  attempts  to  venture  outside,  but  each  time 
he  is  received  by  a  fusillade  and  only  has  time 
to  throw  himself  backward  in  the  trench. 

The  fatigue  party  has  been  watched  and  waited 
for. 

We  hold  a  council  of  the  non-commissioned 
officers  and  the  lieutenant  of  the  Territorials 
which  has  held  the  position  for  several  weeks. 
Various  stratagems  are  proposed  and  we  weigh 
the  chances,  but  after  consideration  all  of  them 
are  vetoed.  It  is  impossible  to  get  by  even  at  the 
greatest  speed  without  risking  the  lives  of  several 
men,  and  perhaps  of  all. 

Still,  if  we  were  able  to  draw  the  attention  of 
the  Boches,  to  occupy  them  with  something  else, 
to  enfilade  them,  to  shell  them. 

"  Enfilade  them  .  .  .  shell  them.  .   .  ." 

"  Is  n't  there  some  place  from  which  we  can 
enfilade  them?  " 

[128] 


AN    ORDINARY    FATIGUE    PARTY 

And  we  all  considered  in  our  minds  the  position 
of  the  Boche  trenches. 

"  We  can't  do  anything  from  here,"  said  a  ser- 
geant who  had  spent  various  periods  in  these 
trenches  for  several  months,  and  knew  every  cor- 
ner of  it;  "  but  below  there  to  the  left,  about  a 
hundred  yards  from  the  picket  post,  is  a  ruined 
cabin  which  dominates  everything.  But  there  's 
nothing  doing  in  getting  there;  it's  too  near; 
they  'd  see  us  as  plain  as  day." 

One  of  our  men  heard  all  this.  And  while  the 
conversation  went  on,  I  saw  him  climb  up  on  the 
parapet  and  examine  the  position. 

It  was  Marseille,  an  impetuous,  headstrong 
type.  He  rebelled  at  all  discipline,  he  was  restive 
under  observation,  but  his  bravery  was  unfailing, 
and  he  was  absolutely  oblivious  to  danger,  which 
he  ignored  with  a  swagger  and  indifference  which 
seemed  amazing.  Marseille  has  known  one  hun- 
dred thousand  adventures  and  turned  one  hundred 
thousand  tricks,  and  has  always  come  back 
absolutely  unharmed. 

When  he  was  on  his  last  leave  he  spent  six 
unrestrained  days  in  innumerable  drinking  bouts 
in  all  the  bars  at  La  Cannebiere,  where  he  nar- 
[  129] 


COVERED  WITH  MUD  AND  GLORY 

rated  his  boasted  deeds  of  prowess,  which  were 
probably  much  inferior  to  the  real  ones.  Then, 
instead  of  going  back,  he  waited  for  them  to  come 
and  get  him.  He  was  arrested  on  the  eighth  day 
and  brought  back  to  the  Corps  by  the  provost. 
Marseille  was  not  the  least  upset  when  the  officer 
demanded  the  reasons  for  his  delay,  and  repHed: 

"  I  don't  like  to  travel  alone.  I  like  society,  I  do. 
So  I  have  had  a  whole  car  to  myself  and  my  escort. 
And  besides,  I  knew  very  well  that  the  gendarmes 
wouldn't  come  from  Marseilles  here  without  buy- 
ing a  drink,  and  they  wouldn't  have  the  nerve  to  lap 
it  all  up  without  offering  me  some.  I  like  the  gend- 
armes.   That  may  seem  strange  to  you,  but  I  do." 

Marseille  is  a  good  singer  and  his  number 
appears  in  all  the  company  concerts.  His  throat 
is  as  clear  as  the  sunny  lights  of  La  Corniche  and 
L'Esterel,  and  he  can  render  the  final  trills  of 
the  Neapolitan  songs  with  the  best. 

When  he  had  finished  his  rapid  observation  he 
came  back  to  our  anxious  group  and  spoke  to 
the  mess  corporal: 

"You  'llbe  all  right,  monvieux.  You  '11  get  there." 

And  we  all  looked  at  him  in  open-mouthed  sur- 
prise at  such  assurance. 

[130] 


AN    ORDINARY    FATIGUE    PARTY 

''Have  you  any  news  or  an  idea?  Explain. 
Tell  us  something  about  it.     Let  us  see." 

"  You  '11  get  there,  as  I  told  you.  Don't  bother 
about  those  fellows  over  there.  That 's  my  job. 
Watch  me." 

And  to  the  lieutenant  who  was  getting  ready 
to  question  him: 

"  You  have  a  machine  gun,  have  n't  you,  Lieu- 
tenant. .  .  .  Won't  you  lend  it  to  me  .  .  .  just  a 
minute?  It 's  a  Saint  Etienne.  I  know  that.  .  .  . 
I  know  them  all.  .  .  .  They 're  all  the  same.  .  .  . 
And  five  belts  with  it  to  amuse  the  Boches  for  five 
minutes.  .  .  .  That  '11  be  enough  for  the  cooks 
to  get  over." 

We  understood  it  all,  and  we  laughed  and  ad- 
mired him.  Marseille  rolled  up  the  barrel  of  the 
machine  gun  and  the  belts  in  several  thicknesses 
of  canvas,  tied  a  rope  to  it  and  attached  the  other 
end  to  his  wrist. 

"  Hold  on  to  the  package  so  that  it  won't  make 
trouble  on  the  stones,  and  when  I  pull  on  the  rope 
twice,  let  it  come." 

And  he  crawled  out  of  the  trench  and  slid  down 
towards  the  ruined  hut. 

We  waited  anxiously  the  full  ten  minutes.  We 
[131] 


COVERED  WITH  MUD  AND  GLORY 

watched  the  cord  unroll  with  varying  emotions. 
It  stopped,  stood  still,  immovable.  Has  he 
arrived? 

Then  we  felt  the  two  jerks,  and  the  lieutenant 
let  the  heavy  package  slide,  and  it  got  mixed  up 
in  the  stakes,  rocks,  and  gullies,  and  made  such 
a  metallic  noise  that  it  could  not  help  attracting 
the  Boche's  attention.  And  it  had  an  effect.  The 
enemy  believed  that  we  were  making  some  sort 
of  a  movement,  and  launched  in  our  direction  a 
heavy  fusillade  which  we  refrained  from  an- 
swering. 

Again  ten  minutes  passed  .  .  .  they  were 
interminable. 

Then  suddenly  came  the  machine  gun  .  .  . 
ours  .  .  .  Marseille's. 

Slowly  at  first,  it  sent  out  its  irregular  tap-tap, 
then  the  cadence  became  faster,  and  then  a  steady 
crackle.  The  Boches  were  taken  in  the  flank  and 
thought  that  we  were  making  an  attack,  and  Mar- 
seille, who  saw  them  running  by  the  light  of  their 
star  shells,  shouted  out, 

"  Forward,  the  cooks,  run,  nom  de  Dieu  I  " 

The  fatigue  party  rushed  out  at  top  speed. 
Soup  spatters  from  all  sides.  The  rations  of  wine 
[132] 


AN    ORDINARY    FATIGUE    PARTY 

and  coffee  will  be  short.     The  men  disappear  in 
the  wood.    They  are  over;  they  are  safe. 

Now  the  German  bullets  are  raging  to  our  left 
about  the  hut;  rockets  go  up  asking  for  artillery. 
In  front  of  our  lines  close  to  us  explosions  rock 
the  ground.  Their  artillery  is  firing  in  the  right 
place.  The  fatigue  party  is  over  but  the  Boches 
have  another  prey.  By  this  time  Marseille  is 
stewing  away  in  the  ruins  of  his  shelter. 

While  the  shelling  lasts  we  discuss  his  last  feat, 
safe  in  the  sap,  while  we  munch  the  last  of  our 
cold  repast.  Then,  as  dawn  begins  to  appear  and 
we  have  to  return  to  the  cantonment  at  daybreak, 
we  begin  to  get  ready  to  go.  Before  we  go  we 
share  a  bucket  of  wine  which  the  overloaded 
fatigue  party  could  n't  carry  in  its  dash  and 
abandoned. 

But  a  shadow  stands  before  us  in  the  sap. 

*'  So  they  share  their  leavings  and  there  is  none 
for  the  hungry?  " 

It  is  Marseille,  safe  and  sound,  whole,  without 
a  scratch.  Everyone  crowds  around  him,  and  the 
officer  runs  up. 

'*  And  now,  if  you  '11  pull  in  that  string,  you  '11 
[133] 


COVERED  WITH  MUD  AND  GLORY 

bring  back  the  tools.  I  'm  sore  on  that  machine. 
You  know,  Lieutenant,  that  gun  was  n't  our 
Hotchkiss.  I  had  to  dismantle  the  breech;  it 
jammed  at  once.  I  could  n't  have  fired  more  than 
half  a  belt.  Fortunately,  they  gave  me  light  with 
their  star  shells ;  I  could  n't  have  done  it  without 
them." 


[134] 


CHAPTER    XI 

WITH   MUSIC 

WE  are  In  reserve  cantonments  at  Chulg- 
nolles,  and  we  all  lodge  together  at  the 
end  of  the  village,  near  the  church,  in  a  large 
house,  which  Is  n't  injured  much  and  which  once 
served  the  servants  of  the  presbytery.  We  were 
shaken  up  In  our  last  action,  and  they  give  us 
comparatively  generous  liberty,  no  manoeuvres,  no 
reviews,  and  no  drills.  The  section  leaders  have 
seen  to  the  arms  and  ammunition  and  have  se- 
cured an  entirely  new  equipment  from  the  ord- 
nance officer. 

The  infantry  have  turned  gunners  over  to  us  to 
fill  up  our  ranks. 

The  lieutenant  recommends  the  men  to  distract 
themselves  with  games,  gossip  and  songs. 

At  his  solicitation  we  organized  a  concert,  sev- 
eral concerts,  in  fact.  Each  section  has  Its  artists 
which  it  believes  In  and  of  which  It  Is  proud. 

One  evening  In  the  garden  adjoining  the  offi- 

[135] 


COVERED  WITH  MUD  AND  GLORY 

cers'  quarters  we  were  endeavoring  to  draw  out 
the  meal  by  chatting,  but  conversation  flagged  as 
night  drew  near.  So  Sub-Lieutenant  Delpos,  who 
was  opposed  to  dreaming  as  engendering  melan- 
choly, demanded  a  concert  at  once,  immediately. 

The  cantonments  were  scattered  about  in  the 
surrounding  gardens. 

"  Crohare,"  he  said,  '*  run  to  each  section  and 
bring  back  artists  —  all  the  artists  in  each  com- 
pany must  be  here  in  five  minutes.*' 

And  five  minutes  later  they  were  there.  All  the 
company,  too,  for  each  section  followed  its  artists, 
who  were  to  shine  in  all  the  glory  of  their  reper- 
toire before  the  ofHcers  and  the  "  little  staff." 

We  had  singers,  comedians  and  speakers,  pro- 
fessional and  amateur.  Jacquet  gave  with  exqui- 
site artistry  several  delightful  songs,  the  words  of 
which  he  had  composed  and  adapted  to  well-known 
tunes.  The  "  Lettre  a  la  Marriane  "  was  really 
touching. 

Gaix  and  Corporal  Vail  sang  with  real  talent 
and  gave  us  a  full  repertoire  from  the  operas. 
The  indefatigable  Marseille  gave,  in  a  hilarious 
gibberish,  an  Italian-Marseilles  thing  which 
brought  down  the  house  with  wild  laughter. 
[136] 


WITH    MUSIC 

"  It 's  too  bad  we  have  n't  a  piano  to  play  the 
accompaniments,"  said  someone. 

"  A  piano !  I  '11  attend  to  that,"  said  the  ever- 
resourceful  Chevalier.  "  Four  men  in  my  bunch, 
and  I  '11  bring  it  at  once." 

Some  minutes  later  the  party  brought  In  an 
enormous  harmonium  which  it  had  found  In  a 
room  of  the  presbytery.  That  harmonium  had 
been  the  silent  witness  of  famous  battles,  had  been 
taken  and  retaken  with  the  village.  It  had  played 
"  Die  Wacht  an  Rhein  "  under  the  German  heel, 
the  "  Reve  Passe "  with  the  artillery,  "  Sidi- 
Brahim  "  with  our  Blue  Devils,  and  it  was  still  in 
good  condition  and  almost  all  the  notes  played. 

"  And  now  we  have  a  piano,  we  must  have  a 
player." 

''  Oh,  there,  *  Father  Music'  You  know  this 
is  your  job.  You  played  for  us  last  summer  in  the 
church  at  Minaucourt." 

"  Father  Music  "  smiled  gravely  and  pushed 
his  way  through  the  groups. 

A  candle  stuck  in  the  neck  of  a  champagne 
bottle  and  placed  on  the  harmonium  lighted  up 
his  Christlike  face  with  a  golden  light. 

He  seated  himself,  without  stopping  smihng, 
[137] 


COVERED  WITH  MUD  AND  GLORY 

on  a  pile  of  ammunition  caissons  which  served  as 
a  piano  stool,  and  —  honor  to  whom  honor  Is  due 
—  since  we  are  machine  gunners,  he  begins  the 
*'  Song  of  the  Machine  Gun,"  with  Gaix  singing 
the  first  stanza. 

'*  Father  Music  "  stands  out  In  the  light  in  the 
middle  of  the  dark  night  and  this  group  of  a  hun- 
dred men  who  one  surmises  are  there,  rather  than 
sees,  squatting  on  the  grass  around  the  instrument. 

Under  his  cap  thrown  back  on  his  head  the  hair 
shows  sparse  and  thin,  his  beard  is  large  and 
tangled,  and  he  smiles  through  his  large,  clear 
eyes.  His  lips  move  with  the  singer,  and  he  sings 
the  song  with  as  much  fervor  and  composure  as  if 
he  were  chanting  a  Halleluiah. 

"Father  Music!"  .  .  . 

He  Is  a  fine  figure  in  our  society,  rich  in  epic 
types. 

I  have  seen  him  near  us  for  some  weeks,  as 
much  In  our  echelon  as  In  the  company  of  which 
he  assumes  the  duties  of  Infirmary  orderly.  I 
have  learned  to  know  him,  and  to  know  him  Is  to 
love  him. 

By  scraps,  by  fragments  of  phrases,  for  he 
[138] 


WITH    MUSIC 

speaks  but  little  —  little  of  himself,  but  Instead 
launches  out  In  real  flights  of  declamation  about 
an  idea,  a  poem,  a  well-known  tune,  the  names  of 
artists  —  I  have  been  able  bit  by  bit  and  through 
deductions  almost  to  reconstruct  his  life. 

He  is  a  quiet  man  in  all  his  ways,  habits  and 
ideas.  He  lived  in  the  quarter  of  Saint-Sulpice  In 
an  old  house  in  the  quiet  Rue  Madame,  and  made 
his  living  by  giving  music  lessons  in  the  institu- 
tions in  the  neighborhood. 

They  knew  him  in  the  quarter  as  *'  Monsieur 
Placide."  On  the  appointed  days  at  the  same 
hours  he  went  to  the  Nuns  of  the  Immaculate 
Conception,  to  the  Brothers  of  the  Sacred  Heart, 
or  to  special  lessons  in  the  city,  without  ever  wan- 
dering far  away  from  the  quarter,  In  the  old  vener- 
able houses.  In  the  Rues  d'Assas  and  Garanclere. 

On  Sundays  he  played  the  organ  in  a  small 
chapel  of  the  Visitation  Sisters. 

The  people  knew  little  about  him  through  social 
intercourse,  for  he  never  went  out,  or  rarely.  In 
summer  he  sometimes  went  to  the  Tuilerles  to 
listen  to  secular  music  —  and  that  is  all. 

When  in  August,  19 14,  the  notices  of  mobili- 
zation called  all  able-bodied  men  to  arms,  his 
[139] 


COVERED  WITH  MUD  AND  GLORY 

orders  were  to  join  a  regiment  of  Colonial  in- 
fantry in  a  fort  around  Paris. 

This  man  lived  a  regular  life  apart  from  dan- 
gerous contingencies,  and  was  unacquainted  with 
worldly  ambitions  and  political  strife,  but  he  went 
to  war  knowing  nothing  of  It,  and  considering  It 
only  a  little  and  then  through  a  professional  view- 
point, as  a  sort  of  great  drama  In  which  he  was 
going  to  play  a  comparatively  passive  role. 

Under  the  cap  and  great  coat  of  the  infantry- 
man, bristling  all  over  with  equipment,  he  was  the 
typical  ''  pollu  "  —  the  poilu  of  tradition.  His 
large  beard  covered  the  front  of  his  brown  coat, 
and  this  gave  him  the  proud  appearance  of  a 
veteran. 

At  first  he  was  going  to  sacrifice  this  thick  beard 
which  he  had  spared  since  his  liberation  from  his 
regiment,  but  his  oflUcers  wanted  him  to  keep  It. 
That  brought  him  a  place  at  the  head  of  the  com- 
pany on  the  march,  and  he  drew  all  eyes.  He 
was  the  poilu. 

His  reputation  as  a  musician  who  played  on  any 
and  all  Instruments  was  quickly  known  through- 
out the  cantonments.  So  he  was  at  all  the  cere- 
monies and  all  the  merrymakings.  In  the  morn- 
[140] 


WITH    MUSIC 

ing  on  a  harmonium  carried  to  an  open  field  he 
might  accompany  a  military  mass  said  by  stretcher- 
bearers,  while  that  evening  he  might  play  on  a 
chance  piano,  perhaps  on  the  same  harmonium, 
at  improvised  concerts,  accompanying  jolly,  broad 
songs  sung  by  amateurs  and  playing  the  national 
hymns  of  the  Allies,  and  astonishing  even  himself 
in  the  patriotic  choruses. 

And  this  man  to  whom  everything  that  was  not 
classical  or  the  Gregorian  chant  was  strange,  who 
for  twenty  years  of  his  life  had  taught  successive 
generations  Mehul,  Gluck,  Bach,  Mozart  and 
Beethoven,  to  whom  Massenet,  Delibes  and 
Gounod  seemed  profane,  surprised  himself  by 
pounding  out  on  a  badly-tuned  piano  and  singing 
with  all  his  might  the  refrains  of  *'  Viens  Pou- 
poule,"  popular  marches,  and  the  ballads  of  the 
faubourg. 

The  soldiers  had  quickly  named  him  "  Father 
Music  "  and  this  nickname  pleased  him  immensely. 

That  night  an  order  came  from  the  commanding 
officer: 

'*  Two  companies  of  machine  guns  will  go  with 
the  utmost  haste  to  Hill  174,  northwest  of  Herbe- 
[141] 


COVERED  WITH  MUD  AND  GLORY 

court,  to  stop  the  enemy  which  is  trying  to  out- 
flank our  right." 

At  three  o'clock  in  the  morning  we  were  at  the 
position  indicated. 

A  small  chapel  with  a  cross  was  situated  on  the 
top  of  the  hill.  The  open  space  In  front  com- 
mands the  road  which  descends  gradually  toward 
the  Mereaucourt  woods  where  the  enemy  is 
concealed. 

We  fortify  our  position  In  a  few  minutes.  On 
both  sides  of  the  road  a  gun  sweeps  the  slope  and 
the  approaches  and  guards  the  way  out  of  the 
woods.  In  the  little  belfry  which  is  shaped  like 
a  dove-cote  another  gun  commands  the  woods 
and  can  disturb  evolutions  In  the  wood  itself. 

We  use  the  material  at  hand  to  fortify  our 
emplacements  —  bits  of  benches,  a  door  of  a  con- 
fessional, and  the  railings  of  the  chapel. 

At  our  right  across  the  road  a  company  of  rifle- 
men also  establish  entrenchments,  so  well  camou- 
flaged that  the  enemy  cannot  see  them  until  in  Its 
zone  of  fire,  that  is  to  say,  too  late. 

The  oflicer,  a  young  sub-lieutenant,  asks  us  not 
to  fire  until  he  gives  the  signal.  He  has  the 
idea  —  and  a  good  one  —  to  let  the  enemy  ad- 
[  142] 


WITH    MUSIC 

vance  and  come  up  the  road.  Here  he  would  be 
unable  to  execute  a  converging  movement  and 
our  gun  in  the  belfry  would  sweep  the  right  side 
of  the  road  and  prevent  his  turning  aside,  the 
company  of  riflemen  would  protect  the  left,  and 
his  section  of  Grenadiers  would  attack  on  the 
road. 

We  are  confident  of  the  strength  of  our  posi- 
tions and  our  means  of  resistance,  and  we  wait 
for  the  launching  of  the  attack  without  anxiety. 

"  Father  Music  "  has  organized  his  dressing 
station  in  the  chapel  in  the  shelter  of  the  altar 
and  now  wanders  around  the  building. 

The  church  recalls  familiar  surroundings  to 
him  and  he  delights  in  looking  at  it.  There  are 
a  few  simple  frescoes,  pictures  of  the  Crucifixion, 
where  gigantic  men  stand  out  in  relief  against 
a  background  of  microscopic  mountains  and  Lili- 
putian  houses,  and  they  interest  him. 

He  lets  his  fingers  wander  over  the  keyboard 
of  the  harmonium  which  lies  forgotten  in  the 
choir. 

His  comrades  jeer, 

"  '  Father  Music '  is  going  to  play  our  De 
Profundisy 

[  143] 


COVERED  WITH  MUD  AND  GLORY 

But  the  quiet  does  not  last  long.  Towards  five 
o'clock  a  frightful  fire  begins  all  at  once.  The 
troops  in  the  front-line  trenches,  at  the  bottom 
of  the  hill,  are  decimated  and  cut  down  by  a  furi- 
ous fire;  they  retreat  and  take  refuge  behind  the 
defense  works  of  the  village. 

We  make  our  final  preparations.  Evidently  the 
enemy  is  going  to  try  to  take  the  village  and  has 
already  begun  its  destruction.  A  storm  of  great 
shells  falls  on  the  trenches,  very  near  us,  some 
yards  behind  the  houses.  We  hear  terrific  explo- 
sions, the  falling  of  roofs,  and  fires  break  out 
everywhere. 

An  order  from  the  commander  of  the  sector 
reaches  us,  "  Maintain  the  position  and  hold  on 
until  the  companies  of  reinforcements  arrive." 

The  bombardment  becomes  more  and  more 
violent.  As  the  sound  of  each  shell  whistles 
through  the  air  we  wonder  if  this  infernal  machine 
is  going  to  strike  in  our  dugout  this  time.  And 
every  two  minutes,  mathematically,  the  uproar 
comes  again  and  this  unimaginable  suffering  con- 
tinues some  hours.  At  the  sound  of  each  shell  we 
close  our  eyes.  We  think  of  the  loved  ones  with 
a  calm  certainty  of  never  seeing  them  again.  We 
[144] 


WITH    MUSIC 

begin  to  wish  that  it  would  end  at  once,  rather 
than  have  to  endure  this  terrible  nervous  tension 
longer. 

And  the  reinforcements  cannot  advance  under 
the  avalanche  of  fire  and  shell.  Are  they  going 
to  let  us  be  massacred  on  the  spot  without  defense  ? 

The  Teuton  artillery  imagines  that  they  have 
cleared  the  objective  and  their  fire  dies  down. 
Cautiously  but  confident  of  their  superiority  and 
tactics,  the  Germans  now  appear  in  numbers. 

Suddenly,  violently,  like  a  clap  of  thunder  the 
"Marseillaise"  bursts  on  our  ears  —  tremen- 
dously. 

It  rushes  out  through  all  the  breaches  in  the 
church;  it  comes  through  the  cracks;  it  goes  up 
through  the  fallen  roof;  it  traverses  the  shattered 
windows.  It  unites  in  itself  all  human  and  celes- 
tial voices.  The  soul  of  a  whole  nation,  the  spirit 
of  ancient  glories,  animates  the  old  organ  which 
sings  its  last  song. 

With  all  the  strength  of  its  breath,  with  all  the 
breath  of  its  pipes,  filled  to  bursting,  with  all  the 
sonority  of  its  bass,  its  horns,  its  flutes  and  violins, 
the  organ  hurls  forth  the  sacred  song. 

And  it  is  not  only  the  hymn  of  triumphant 
[145] 


COVERED  WITH  MUD  AND  GLORY 

Liberty  and  the  indignation  of  an  avenging  people 
in  the  face  of  the  invader.  Magnified  by  the  litur- 
gical sounds  on  the  ritualistic  instrument  of  sacred 
music,  it  is  the  Hosanna  of  Glory,  the  Sursam 
Corda  of  Faith,  confident  in  the  approaching  vic- 
tory, the  Resurexit  of  the  triumphant  Past,  and 
the  De  Profundls  of  brutal  domination. 

And  beside  all  that,  all  the  songs  of  glory,  all 
the  exaltations  of  faith,  all  the  clamor  of  Grego- 
rian theogony  vibrate  in  the  notes  of  the 
"  Marseillaise." 

Under  the  humble  vault  of  a  hamlet  chapel  the 
organ  plays  the  twice-blessed  music,  and  intones 
the  splendid  Magnificat  of  the  Republic,  the  hymn 
of  the  Trinity,  thrice  human,  thrice  divine,  Lib- 
erty, Fraternity  and  Equality. 

And,  dominating  all  the  sonorities  of  the  organ, 
a  thousand  voices  unite  in  a  sublime  burst  of  song. 


Aux  armeSj  citoyens 


"  Grenades!  "  commands  the  lieutenant. 

The   men,   electrified,   mouths   half  open,   the 

machines  in  their  hands,  spring  out  of  the  trench 

in  the  teeth  of  the  enemy,  but  two  steps  from  him. 

And  with  an  irresistible  dash  they  charge  him, 

[146] 


WITH    MUSIC 

follow  him,  crumble  him.     The  Teutons  flee  in 
terror.  .  .  . 

Night  has  fallen.  Under  a  sky  reddened  by 
the  lights  of  fires  deep  silence  is  over  everything. 
Numerous  reinforcements  have  arrived.  The  re- 
conquered positions  have  been  reorganized  at 
once. 

The  general  has  been  told  of  the  exploit  and 
he  congratulates  the  officers  and  men,  and  prom- 
ises them  rewards.  He  also  expresses  a  desire  to 
see  the  church  from  which  came  the  martial  hymn 
which  electrified  the  company. 

All  is  dark.  .  .  . 

At  the  back  near  the  altar  a  small  lantern 
lightens  the  darkness  ...  we  approach. 

On  the  ruined  harmonium,  forever  silent  now, 
"  Father  Music  "  sleeps.  .  .  . 


[147] 


CHAPTER    XII 

"we  have  taken  a  picket  post" 

{''  Communique  du  ") 

THE  asphyxiating  shells  which  have  been 
falling  around  us  for  forty-eight  hours 
without  a  let-up  have  ceased.  This  morning  the 
first  rays  of  the  sun  filtered  through  the  layers  of 
gas  and  seemed  to  evaporate  them.  This  lull 
was  opportune.  Our  masks  have  long  since  been 
glued  to  our  faces,  and  loosened  by  our  heavy 
breathing  they  no  longer  adhere  hermetically  and 
begin  to  let  in  the  toxins. 

At  last  we  are  able  to  breathe  at  will  and 
swallow  our  share  of  pure  air. 

Our  sap  opens  on  the  side  of  a  great  quarry  and 
commands  the  whole  valley  of  the  Somme.  At 
our  feet  is  the  canal  and  towpath,  at  the  right  in 
a  group  of  trees  in  the  middle  of  the  marshes  are 
the  ruins  of  Froissy;  opposite  us,  behind  the  but- 
tress of  the  La  Vache  woods,  is  the  steeple  of 
Eclusier. 

[148] 


"WE  HAVE   TAKEN  A  PICKET   POST" 

The  open  space  in  front  of  our  dugout  forms 
a  sort  of  terrace.  Here  we  have  laid  out  tables 
and  dug  seats  In  the  chalk  of  the  quarry.  Men 
are  descending  by  real  scaling  paths  to  get  water 
from  the  canal,  although  It  Is  against  the  major's 
explicit  orders. 

The  towpath  is  visible  from  the  enemy's 
trenches  on  the  other  side  of  the  Somme.  Dur- 
ing the  preceding  days,  those  who  tried  to  fol- 
low It  to  get  back  to  Eclusler  more  easily  were 
wounded  by  the  fire  of  a  machine  gun  which 
sweeps  the  way. 

Our  men  come  back  from  this  expedition  with- 
out accident,  and  we  are  able  to  proceed  to  our 
summary  ablutions.  We  have  not  been  able  to 
do  that  for  six  days,  and  It  Is  a  real  delight  to 
feel  the  fresh  water  on  our  eyes  and  to  rid  the 
skin  of  Its  sticky  moisture. 

Two  of  our  sections  hold  the  first-line  trenches 
twenty  yards  In  front  of  us.  We  must  relieve 
them  presently.   .  .  . 

The  artillery  Is  still  silent,  and  without  a  doubt 
the  enemy  has  given  up  the  stroke  he  was  prepar- 
ing. He  was  counting  on  the  usual  morning  mist 
of  the  Somme,  but  this  morning  the  air  Is  very 
[  149] 


COVERED  WITH  MUD  AND  GLORY 

clear  without  a  suspicion  of  fog.  A  fresh  breeze 
blows  from  the  north. 

As  we  wait  for  the  hour  of  relief,  we  talk,  and 
an  interminable  game  of  cards  goes  on. 

During  the  dark  dreary  days  of  forced  seclu- 
sion in  the  bottom  of  the  sap  I  discovered  a  very 
fine  fellow,  one  of  our  comrades  whom  I  had  not 
had  occasion  to  notice  until  then.  He  was  very 
simple,  talked  but  little,  lived  by  himself,  and  I 
did  not  know  his  name. 

Chance  placed  us  side  by  side  and  permitted  me 
to  engage  him  in  conversation. 

Under  a  rough,  taciturn  appearance  I  found  a 
soul  full  of  kindness,  a  life  touched  by  sacrifice, 
kindly,  modest,  the  heroism  of  the  humble  who 
live  simply  for  their  long,  hard  tasks  without  com- 
plaining and  without  anyone  being  able  to  pity 
them  in  their  sorrow  and  lighten  their  burdens. 

One  night  —  was  it  night?  —  hermetically 
sealed  in  the  deep  sap,  lighted  only  by  the  waver- 
ing light  of  scanty  candles,  all  our  hours  were 
nocturnal.  Without  the  irregular  arrival  of 
supply  parties  we  would  have  been  absolutely 
ignorant  of  the  flight  of  time. 

One  night,  when  the  bombardment  seemed  to 
[150] 


"WE  HAVE  TAKEN  A  PICKET   POST" 

reach  the  final  height  of  violence,  when  each  blow 
shook  our  dugout,  and  the  props  groaned  and 
threatened  to  yield  —  it  would  have  been  a  merci- 
less burial  —  our  looks  crossed  and  I  read  in  his 
eyes  a  deep  sorrow. 

In  spite  of  my  natural  reserve,  out  of  respect  to 
his  deep  suffering  I  was  unable  to  contain  myself 
long. 

"  Comrade,"  I  said,  "  I  read  in  your  looks  a 
great  sorrow." 

He  seemed  to  come  back  to  reality  when  he 
heard  my  voice ! 

''  Fate  has  placed  us  near  each  other  for  some 
days.  We  don't  know  what  to-morrow  may  bring. 
Can't  I  be  of  some  use?  Aid  you  in  any  way? 
Tell  me  I  " 

His  eyes  tried  to  smile  a  thanks.  I  saw  his 
lips  contract  and  then  came  tears,  and  before  I 
could  say  anything  he  leaned  his  head  on  my 
shoulder  and  wept  deeply. 

It  was  not  weakness,  despair,  or  fear,  but  the 
unbridling  of  a  heart  shut  up  too  long,  the  great 
gasp  of  a  soul  heavy  with  mental  sorrows  which 
might  at  last  open  itself,  the  gentle  rain  which 
brought  the  stifling  storm  of  the  nerves  to  an  end. 
[151] 


COVERED  WITH  MUD  AND  GLORY 

He  confided  his  life  history  to  me  in  a  few 
words. 

He  was  a  simple  artisan  of  the  laboring  class, 
and  his  life  had  been  full  of  grief  and  sorrow. 
After  some  years  of  struggles,  and  cares  and  stress 
together  with  his  beloved  companion,  a  daughter 
was  born.  But  in  coming  into  the  world  she  took 
the  life  of  her  mother.  And  then  he  found  him- 
self alone  in  the  world  with  this  puny  frail  crea- 
ture, born  in  grief  and  raised  in  sorrow. 

In  addition  to  his  great  love  for  her  as  a  father 
he  added  his  worship  of  the  departed  one.  He 
limited  his  life  to  his  grief,  and  made  his  house 
a  memorial  chapel  where  every  object  was  a  votive 
offering  to  his  absent  beloved  and  a  relic  of  the 
ever-present  dead.  He  adorned  the  little  girl 
with  her  mother's  modest  jewelry,  and  cut  her 
clothes  from  those  she  had  worn. 

Through  this  double  love  which  he  poured  out 
on  this  child,  she  became  his  only  reason  for  exist- 
ence, his  whole  life. 

The    little    girl    was    ten    years    old    to-day. 

Brought  up   In  the   seclusion  of  the  tabernacle, 

she  had  taken  up  her  role  conscientiously.     She 

was  quieter  than  most  children  of  her  age,  and 

[152] 


"WE  HAVE   TAKEN  A  PICKET   POST" 

attentive  to  her  father's  slightest  wish.  As  she 
grew  up  she  developed  into  the  very  image  of  her 
mother,  and  the  poor  man  began  to  live  again  as 
in  a  dream  the  days  of  his  happy  past. 

When  war  broke  out  the  implacable  mobiliza- 
tion tore  him  from  the  fireside  he  had  never  left 
before.  Living  alone  as  they  did,  they  had  no 
friends  and  knew  of  no  relatives. 

He  went,  trusting  the  house  to  her  and  all  their 
modest  property,  only  recommending  her  to  the 
watch  of  a  neighbor,  of  a  concierge. 

But  fortified  by  example,  she  suddenly  grew  up 
through  the  grief  of  this  weighty  separation,  and 
the  girl  was  already  sufficient  for  the  role  as 
guardian  of  the  hearth. 

Ever  since  he  had  left  she  had  written  each 
week  the  letter  which  he  waited  for  impatiently 
and  which  he  read  and  re-read  during  the  follow- 
ing days. 

This  morning  he  seemed  more  cheerful.  It 
was  not  only  the  joy  of  finding  himself  in  the  open 
air  again,  of  having  finished  with  the  constant 
danger  of  being  buried  alive,  but  also  because  now 
the  bombardment  had  died  down  the  officer  with 
[153] 


COVERED  WITH  MUD  AND  GLORY 

the  mall  would  be  able  to  bring  to-day  the  letters 
which  we  had  not  received  for  six  days. 

The  child  had  not  failed  to  write  a  single  time 
on  the  promised  date  and  he  knew  that  back  in 
the  rear  a  letter  from  his  daughter  was  waiting 
for  him  and  would  come  to-day.  This  thought 
made  him  cheerful. 

At  the  relief  I  went  with  him  into  the  front  line 
trench.  It  was  riddled  with  shell  holes.  Our 
barbed  wire  entanglements  were  almost  destroyed, 
but  the  trench  was  not  entirely  ruined,  and  sand- 
bags quickly  put  it  in  good  shape  again.  An  im- 
mense heap  of  bricks  and  smoking  ruins  cut  off 
our  view  in  front. 

It  was  all  that  was  left  of  a  farmhouse  called 
"  La  Maison  Rose."  It  had  been  sharply  disputed 
in  terrible  combats  and  had  passed  in  succession 
from  the  enemy  into  our  hands  and  then  from 
ours  to  the  enemy,  to  remain  finally  between  the 
lines. 

Our  artillery  was  riddling  this  pile  with  shells 

to  prevent  the  Germans  fortifying  it  and  making 

it  a  point  of  support  commanding  our  trenches. 

But  the  mass  of  ruins  stayed  there  and  formed  a 

[154] 


c    c     c    cc 


-WE  HAVE  TAKEN  A  PICKET   POST" 

ridge  which,  if  it  was  not  dangerous,  was  at  least 
annoying. 

Sub-Lieutenant  Delpos  demonstrated  to  me  by 
means  of  a  periscope  the  use  they  might  make  of 
that  pile  of  stones.  He  was  a  daring  but  prudent 
tactician  and  went  on  the  principle  that  everything 
ought  to  be  used  to  spare  the  men's  lives,  and  that 
we  should  not  neglect  to  take  advantage  of  any 
incident  in  the  terrain. 

"  Lieutenant,  here  's  an  order." 

The  battalion  intelligence  officer  handed  him  a 
paper  written  in  pencil : 

"  Chief  of  battalion  of  the  company  of  machine  guns. 
A  reconnaissance  of  aeroplanes  signals  that  the  enemy  are 
installing  gas-throwing  or  liquid  fire  machines  behind 
the  pile  of  stones  In  front  of  your  lines.  Blow  It  up 
with  several  bombs  on  the  ends  to  scatter  It.  Ask  for 
volunteers." 

"  See  what  I  told  you.  The  Germans  lose  no 
time  in  utilizing  the  advantages  of  the  terrain. 
See,  behind  that  pile  of  stones  they  are  installing 
their  gas  machines.  They  think  they  're  sheltered, 
but  nothing  is  from  our  aeroplanes.  Oh,  the 
aeroplanes!  " 

A  man  from  the  engineers,  who  have  received 

[155] 


COVERED  WITH  MUD  AND  GLORY 

a  similar  order,  comes  with  the  explosives.  He 
looks  at  the  emplacement  through  a  loophole,  and 
turns  to  us  whistling  and  shaking  his  head : 

"  Mince!  That 's  not  going  to  be  easy.  One 
might  be  able  to  manage  it  at  night,  but  by  day 
.  .  .  that 's  going  to  be  a  real  bird  trap." 

"What!  What!  What's  to  stop  your  stick- 
ing your  melinite  sausage  in  that  doghouse  ?  Lend 
me  your  peephole.  I  'm  going  to  see  how  it 
stands." 

It  was  Grizard  mixing  In  the  conversation ;  he 
had  already  taken  the  two  bombs  from  the  engi- 
neer's hands,  which  he  let  go  with  evident  satis- 
faction. 

"  We  ought  to  put  one  in  each  end  of  the  buffet. 
Don't  worry.  Lieutenant.  That 's  a  fine  job  and 
will  be  well  done." 

Grizard  turns  to  his  companion  Marseille  who 
is  draining  his  two  litre  canteen  without  trouble. 

"  Oh,  there,  you.  This  will  be  a  fine  chance 
for  a  ballad.  We  're  going  to  play  a  trick  on 
our  neighbor  opposite." 

And  then,  as  Marseille  gave  his  opinion  only 
by  a  look  without  letting  go  the  neck  of  his 
canteen : 

[156] 


"WE   HAVE   TAKEN  A  PICKET   POST" 

*'  Come,  leave  some  until  we  get  back.  We  '11 
be  thirsty." 

The  two  volunteers  got  ready  for  their  expedi- 
tion at  once.  They  each  took  a  bomb  and  put  it 
in  their  jacket  pockets;  protected  their  heads  by 
a  shield  which  they  pushed  ahead,  and  climbed 
up  the  bank,  crawled  under  the  barbed  wire,  and 
disappeared  in  the  shell  holes. 

They  had  covered  their  heads  with  muddy  can- 
vas. If  they  remained  motionless,  three  yards 
away  one  could  not  tell  them  from  the  ground. 

Through  periscopes  we  watched  them  advance. 
The  lookouts  in  the  enemy  trench  had  not  seen 
them  yet.    Not  a  shot.    Absolute  quiet. 

The  "  doghouse  "  is  thirty  yards  from  our  lines. 
Sliding  along  carefully  as  they  must,  ten  minutes 
are  necessary  to  get  there.  The  time  will  seem 
long;  longer  for  us  than  for  them. 

I  am  sure  that  while  they  are  giving  their  whole 
attention  to  getting  on  in  their  adventurous  spirits, 
entirely  ignorant  of  the  first  feeling  of  fear,  that 
they  have  no  other  idea  in  their  heads  than  to  play 
a  good  joke  on  the  Boches.  They  are  fine  jokers ! 
They  have  never  been  known  to  draw  back  from 
what  offers,  but  when  their  lives  are  at  stake.  .  .  . 
[157] 


COVERED  WITH  MUD  AND  GLORY 

There  is  still  nothing.    Not  a  shot! 

But  how  could  the  enemy  lookouts  see  them? 
We  ourselves  who  know  their  goal,  who  follow 
their  trail,  lose  sight  of  them  momentarily.  Brown 
grass  and  burned  shrubbery  covers  the  ground  at 
that  spot;  they  must  be  there  inside. 

The  ten  minutes  have  gone  now.  Still  noth- 
ing! !  ! 

Have  they  seen  a  danger  we  cannot  see  as  they 
neared  the  goal,  and  have  they  burrowed  them- 
selves in  the  ground?  Nevertheless,  their  mission 
is  extremely  urgent,  and  they  know  it. 

Lieutenant  Delpos  nervously  frets  about  and 
stamps  his  foot, 

"  I  ought  to  have  gone  myself.  .  .  ." 

"  Wait,  there  they  are." 

Marseille  and  Grizard  are  coming  back;  they 
are  only  ten  feet  from  the  trench. 

But  rash  to  madness,  in  their  absolute  uncon- 
sciousness of  danger  now  that  their  mission  is  ac- 
complished, they  take  no  thought  of  themselves, 
and  instead  of  sliding  under  the  barbed  wire,  as 
they  went,  to  get  into  the  dugout  Grizard  stands 
up  and  shouts, 

"  Let  the  balloon  go  up." 
[158] 


"WE  HAVE  TAKEN  A  PICKET  POST" 

At  the  same  moment,  a  shower  of  bullets! 

Grizard  rebounded,  twisted  himself  in  a 
final  contortion,  and  fell  on  his  back  while  Mar- 
seille jumped  into  the  trench  shouting  to  his 
comrade, 

''  Have  n't  you  finished  playing  the  man- 
serpent?  " 

Then,  when  he  saw  that  his  comrade  was  ab- 
solutely dead,  he  burst  out  in  wild  anger: 

"  Nom  de  Dieu  .  .  .  Nom  de  Dieu  .  .  .  de 
nom  de  Dieu  ...  If  that  is  n't  too  bad.  .  .  . 
He  need  n't  stay  there,  the  rascal.  I  'm  going  to 
get  him." 

The  explosion  came,  a  frightful  one ;  the  bombs 
had  just  exploded. 

"  To  the  sap  ...  to  the  sap.  It 's  going  to 
rain  stones." 

The  pile  of  stones  is  thrown  up  with  tremendous 
violence.     Blocks  are  thrown  into  the  trench. 

The  smoke  blows  away  and  behind  the  scat- 
tered ruins  we  see  two  machine  guns  in  position 
with  their  gun  crews  killed  beside  them,  and  all 
their  material  for  fortifications  and  gas-making 
apparatus. 

The  sub-lieutenant  jumps  on  the  parapet, 
[159] 


COVERED  WITH  MUD  AND  GLORY 

"  To  the  bayonet,  forward,  enfants,  get  the 
tools/* 

And  before  the  enemy  had  recovered  from  his 
stupefaction,  our  men  are  on  the  guns,  which  they 
get  and  bring  back  in  a  hurry  under  a  storm  of 
bullets  and  grenades. 

When  we  are  back  from  this  sudden  attack,  we 
call  the  roll.  Several  fail  to  answer,  and  among 
them  my  friend  of  the  day  before. 

I  suffer  as  though  he  had  been  my  own  brother. 

That  night,  when  the  storm  of  fire  has  ceased, 
we  try  to  search  carefully  through  the  darkness 
of  the  terrain  where  our  missing  men  have  fallen. 
Groans  tells  us  that  they  are  there,  but  in  their 
fever  and  pain  no  one  answers  our  calls. 

At  daybreak,  at  the  risk  of  the  bullets  which 
still  whistle  above  the  trench,  we  are  able  to  see 
them. 

There  he  was  scarcely  twenty  yards  away,  his 
large  eyes  open  and  looking  towards  us  .  .  .  be- 
yond us  .  .  .  very  far.     But  I  know  where !  !  ! 

The  day  begins  quietly.     Doubtless  the  enemy 

is  meditating  a  revenge  for  yesterday's  surprise; 

not  a  shot  on  our  side  or  on  the  other.     It  is  the 

silence  after  the  storm.     I  begin  to  hope  for  a 

[i6o] 


"WE   HAVE   TAKEN  A  PICKET   POST" 

sudden  attack  which  will  let  us  go  out  and  bring 
back  our  wounded. 

A  man  brings  the  letters  with  our  morning 
coffee.  There  was  one  for  him  and  I  call  and 
tell  him.  He  answers  with  a  sigh.  I  guess  rather 
than  hear  what  he  wants. 

"  Read  me  the  letter,  very  loud  so  I  can  hear 
It."  And  in  a  voice  which  I  force  myself  to  make 
firm  and  almost  joyous,  while  sobs  choke  me,  I 
read  this  letter: 

"  My  darling  Papa: 

"  You  did  not  expect  a  letter  from  me  to-day  for  it 's 
not  my  usual  day.  I  wanted  to  surprise  you.  To-morrow 
is  mamma's  birthday.  With  the  economies  I  made  out 
of  the  allowance,  I  had  my  picture  taken.  I  put  on  for 
the  occasion  her  beautiful  necklace  and  pretty  red  silk 
blouse  which  is  so  becoming  to  me.  The  neighbors  al- 
ready see  how  much  I  look  like  her. 

"  And  that  my  little  souvenir  might  be  still  more 
precious,  I  have  copied  on  the  back  of  the  picture  the  song 
which  you  taught  me  when  I  was  very  small  so  that  I 
could  sing  it  before  mamma's  portrait. 

"  This  song,  now  that  you  are  no  longer  here,  tells  all 
that  my  heart  would  say  to  you  on  this  day  I  long  for  you, 
mamma's  birthday.    It  has  become  my  evening  prayer. 

**'  Oh!  si  tu  savaiSj  loin  de  foi, 
Combien  les  heures  sont  amereSj 
Pleines  d*attristantes  chimeres, 
Et  comme  desert  est  le  toit, 

[i6i] 


COVERED  WITH  MUD  AND  GLORY 

Vcj  j'ai  beau  remplir  par  V etude 
Et  par  le  travail,  tous  mes  jours, 
C'est  tot  que  je  cherche  tou jours 
Tout  au  fond  de  ma  solitude.^  " 

Then,  before  I  finished  my  reading,  his  voice 
continued  the  song  of  the  child  as  he  lay  there  on 
the  point  of  death.  In  the  hour  of  death  his  grave 
voice  had  a  celestial  accent;  the  simple  song  went 
up  like  a  superhuman  song,  a  seraphic  song,  above 
men,  beyond  all  things.  It  penetrated  to  the 
bottom  of  our  souls  and  probed  our  hearts  and 
brought  tears. 

The  barbarians  on  the  other  side  of  the  trench, 
themselves  fathers,  husbands,  brothers,  under- 
stand that  a  father  Is  dying  calling  to  his  child; 
that  a  past  common  to  us  all  lives  again  In  that 
last  agony.  And  their  arms  rest  Inert,  their  guns 
are  lowered,  and  all  the  fierce  warriors  remain 
motionless,  dreaming,  lost  In  the  contemplation 
of  their  inner  dreams.  Alone,  their  hearts  beat 
and  bleed. 

Suddenly  someone  shouts   an  oath   from  the 
German  trench.     A  brute  blasphemes, 
''  Halt  dein  Mauir 

[162] 


"WE  HAVE  TAKEN  A  PICKET  POST" 

A  shot  sounds.  A  bullet  puts  an  end  to  that 
beatific  agony. 

Then,  there  was  no  need  of  a  signal  or  an 
order.  Tears  dried  spontaneously;  rage  bit  our 
lips  and  lighted  our  eyes. 

With  a  bound,  with  a  single  bound,  sudden, 
violent,  unanimous,  we  jumped  the  parapet,  and 
without  the  enemy's  firing  a  shot  In  his  utter  sur- 
prise, we  bounded  into  the  German  trench.  Five 
minutes  later,  there  was  none  left  alive. 

Bowing  my  head  over  the  body  of  my  friend, 
I  placed  the  picture  of  his  child  on  his  still  moist 
lips. 

The  Communique  will  say: 

''  South  of  the  Somme  we  took  a  picket  post 
by  surprise,  captured  two  machine  guns  and  con- 
siderable material  for  making  asphyxiating  gas. 
Our  losses  are  insignificant." 

And  the  public  will  think  that  very  simple  — 
a  picket  post  .  .  .  two  machine  guns  .  .  .  and 
no  losses. 


[163] 


CHAPTER    XIII 

A   NIGHT   CONVOY 

THE  colonel  just  telephoned  the  following 
order: 

*'  The  echelons  of  the  companies  of  machine 
guns  will  bring,  to-night,  thirty  thousand  car- 
tridges to  the  P.  C.^  of  the  regiment.  This  order 
must  be  executed  before  daylight." 

We  spent  the  afternoon  In  verifying  the  belts 
and  making  up  the  war  train. 

Towards  seven  o'clock  we  went  slowly  towards 
the  bridge  at  Frolssy,  where  we  made  a  long  halt 
until  night  fell.  The  sentry  refused  to  let  us  take 
the  towpath  which  would  save  us  some  eight  miles. 

These  were  his  Instructions ! 

It  appears  that  the  noises  of  the  caissons  and 
wagons  might  wake  up  the  enemy,  who  would 
at  once  bombard  the  towpath  near  which  were 
numerous  huts  of  regiments  who  were  resting. 

So  we  crossed  the  canal,  and  in  order  to  get  to 

*  Commandant's  Post. 

[164] 


A   NIGHT    CONVOY 

Cappy  on  our  right,  we  have  to  go  round  by 
Bray-sur-Somme. 

But  this  road  has  Its  distractions. 

The  road  is  absolutely  torn  up  and  it  is  not  five 
yards  wide  anywhere,  in  fact  it  is  an  infernal 
mixture  of  automobiles,  artillery,  caissons  and 
batteries. 

No  one  will  slow  up.  They  cross  over,  go 
around,  hang  on,  shout,  bellow,  insult,  and  get 
past  as  best  they  can.  Our  mules  are  obstinate 
and  stubborn  and  go  on  their  way  placidly  in  the 
midst  of  this  uproar. 

Once  we  lean  so  far  to  the  right  that  the  hubs 
of  the  wheels  on  the  lower  side  stick  in  the  mud. 

We  doubtless  go  ahead  slowly,  but  we  go  ahead 
all  the  same.  The  drivers  have  to  go  in  front  of 
their  beasts.  It  would  be  madness  for  them  to 
stay  on  the  seats  of  the  ammunition  wagons,  and 
the  certain  ruin  for  man  and  beast,  for  exhausted 
by  fatigue,  they  would  fall  asleep  and  get  in  the 
way  of  the  enormous  meteors  which  rush  by  with- 
out seeing  anything. 

As  we  approach  Bray,  the  crowding  Is  beyond 
anything  one  could  imagine. 

It  is  one  compact  mass  of  wagons,  trucks,  cais- 
[165] 


COVERED  WITH   MUD  AND  GLORY 

sons,  guns,  forage  wagons,  all  entangled,  mixed 
up,  wedged  together,  trying  to  get  through  a 
street  scarcely  wide  enough  to  let  two  wagons  by 
and  where  ten  insist  on  going  together. 

If  we  mix  with  this  crowd,  we  will  condemn 
ourselves  to  several  hours  in  one  place  without 
moving.  Once  in  the  crush  it  is  impossible  to  get 
free  and  go  back. 

Roudon  suggests  that  we  twist  around  the  vil- 
lage. Our  wagons  have  the  advantage  of  being 
able  to  go  anywhere.  They  were  made  expressly 
for  this  work  and  have  wide  wheels  and  no  frames. 

We  make  a  passage  through  a  hawthorn  hedge 
with  a  few  blows  of  the  axe  and  cross  the  fields  in 
spite  of  the  invectives  of  the  gendarmes  who  per- 
sist in  trying  to  make  us  circle  round  in  regular 
order,  just  as  though  we  were  going  around  the 
Obelisk  in  the  Place  de  la  Concorde. 

*'  Here,  brave  gendarmes,  they  pass  as  they 
can.  Guns  thunder.  Shells  are  near,  and  it  is 
necessary  to  arrive  at  the  appointed  time." 

"  Instructions  thought  out  by  some  officer  in 
the  peace  and  quiet  of  a  faraway  office  are  all  rot. 
Go  on,  you  '11  find  out." 

We  are  beyond  the  village  an  hour  later  and 
[i66] 


A   NIGHT    CONVOY 

are  on  the  highway  which  leads  to  the  bridge  at 
Cappy. 

Here,  things  are  askew  again.  We  must  cross 
to  get  over  the  bridge.  We  can't  go  around  that. 
So  we  get  into  the  string  of  wagons  and  follow 
their  pace.  They  advance  in  skips  and  jumps 
.  .  .  they  go  ahead  ten  yards,  stop  a  quarter  of 
an  hour,  and  begin  again.  One  would  think  he 
was  in  the  line  at  the  Opera  on  the  day  of  a  free 
performance. 

We  stand  about  in  one  spot  more  than  three 
hours. 

Finally,  about  midnight  we  reach  the  entrance 
to  the  bridge. 

A  new  delay ! 

We  have  to  get  out  of  the  way  to  let  convoys 
past  which  are  going  In  the  opposite  direction. 
They  are  ammunition  trucks  which  make  a  noise 
like  thunder. 

Just  then,  some  artillerymen,  who  do  not  want  to 
wait  and  who  glory  In  the  not  altogether  fortunate 
reputation  of  always  getting  by,  no  matter  what 's 
in  the  way,  dash  on  to  the  bridge  at  a  gallop. 

*'  That 's  it.     Now  we  're  In  a  pickle,  a  mess 
.  .  .  that 's  the  .   .  ." 

[167] 


COVERED  WITH  MUD  AND  GLORY 

The  poles  run  into  the  carburetors,  the  horses 
rear  and  kick  against  the  hoods  with  their  mad- 
dened hoofs;  the  motors  continue  to  run,  raging 
at  their  impotence. 

Nevertheless  a  way  must  be  cleared  through  the 
bridge.    And  in  the  pitch  dark  night  that's  not  easy. 

A  chaffeur  has  the  ingenious  idea  of  lighting  a 
headlight. 

Immediately,  evidently  judging  that  this  light 
is  without  a  doubt  insufficient  and  its  aid  is  indis- 
pensable for  us,  the  German  artillery  sends  us  all 
the  material  necessary  for  clearing  the  bridge. 

It  sends  us  shells  and  with  absolutely  no  care 
at  all. 

To  the  right,  to  the  left,  in  front,  and  behind, 
the  shots  fall  like  a  hailstorm. 

Cries,  groans,  oaths,  and  commands  impossible 
to  execute !    It  is  Hell. 

In  an  excess  of  generosity,  doubtless  to  aid  us 
in  getting  out  of  our  difficulty,  a  well-aimed  shell 
falls  on  a  truck,  sets  fire  to  the  gasoline  tank,  and 
the  whole  thing  saturated  with  paint  and  covered 
with  impervious  canvas  bursts  into  flames. 

We  can  see.  We  can  see  only  too  well  now, 
and  the  Boches  too. 

[i68] 


A   NIGHT    CONVOY 

Through  their  glasses  they  can  easily  estimate 
what  their  objective  is  worth  and  see  what  a  large 
crowd  is  crowding  around  the  spectacle.  And 
their  bombardment  doubles  in  intensity. 

"  This  is  no  time  to  stay  here." 

On  the  trot  we  gain  the  fields  and  follow  the 
bank  lined  by  poplars. 

We  reach  the  limit  of  the  zone  of  fire  in  about 
three  hundred  yards.  We  crowd  behind  the  trees 
and  hedges  to  avoid  the  splinters  which  can  still 
reach  us. 

Suddenly,  there  is  a  terrible  cry,  a  noise  of  some- 
thing falling.    The  bridge  has  fallen  down. 

That  is  fatal. 

"  We  've  got  to  be  at  the  P.  C.  at  daybreak,  but 
I  don't  see  how  we  are  going  to  make  it." 

There  is  absolutely  nothing  to  do  just  now;  it 
would  be  folly  to  try  anything,  no  matter  what 
it  was. 

No  matter  what  the  cost  these  convoys  must 
reach  the  left  bank,  where  numerous  units  wait 
for  the  ammunition  which  they  need  badly,  so  the 
order  is  given  to  silence  the  enemy's  batteries 
which  are  bombarding  us  so  thoroughly. 

All  the  guns  in  the  valley  of  Froissy,  including 
[169] 


COVERED  WITH  MUD  AND  GLORY 

the  big  English  guns,  thunder  out  at  once  in  an 
astounding  uproar.  .  .  . 

The  enemy  returns  the  fire  with  a  storm  of 
shrapnel.  But  the  trees  with  their  thick  leaves 
fortunately  protect  us  from  this.  We  hear  splin- 
ters and  bullets  falling  into  the  waters  of  the  canal 
a  few  yards  away. 

The  fire  near  the  bridge  continues.  The  flames 
have  reached  other  vehicles  now  and  a  great  cloud 
goes  up  in  the  air  lighting  up  the  surrounding 
country.  No  one  even  dares  to  think  of  trying 
to  put  it  out  in  the  thick  rain  of  bullet  and  shell. 

Roudon  is  disturbed.  He  is  a  man  of  duty,  to 
whom  an  order  is  a  sacred  thing.  No  obstacle 
should  prevent  the  execution  of  an  order,  so  he 
proposes  that  we  go  back  to  Frolssy  and  reach 
the  P.  C.  of  the  regiment  by  way  of  the  Cappy 
plateau. 

"  That 's  mad,  mon  vieux.  We  'd  never  make 
It  before  nine  o'clock  in  the  morning,  and  we  'd  all 
be  killed  going  that  way  in  the  open." 

"  So  much  the  worse.  It  is  necessary  to  bring 
the  ammunition.     It  is  an  order  and  it  Is  urgent." 

*'  Wait   a  little  while  until  this  quiets   down. 
They  '11  not  go  on  like  this  all  night." 
[  170] 


A   NIGHT    CONVOY 

"  Yes,  they  will  too ;  they  've  seen  the  convoys 
and  they  '11  keep  up  the  barrage  until  daylight.'* 

"  If  we  could  only  find  a  boat.  We  could  take 
the  caissons  to  the  other  side.  The  quarry  is  n't 
far  from  there.     The  men  could  carry  them." 

"  What  are  you  thinking  about?  Going  to  find 
a  boat  at  this  time  of  night!  And  with  what  is 
falling  into  the  canal  we  'd  run  some  risk  in 
crossing.  .  .  ." 

Far  from  silencing  the  enemy,  the  fire  of  our 
batteries  exasperates  him. 

Heavy  guns,  guns  on  tractors  doubtless,  have 
been  brought  into  play.  "  280's  "  and  "  210's  " 
come  at  regular  Intervals. 

The  Boches  must  have  thought  they  had  sur- 
prised a  strategic  movement  much  more  impor- 
tant than  it  really  was  and  were  trying  to  check  it. 

The  place  is  becoming  untenable. 

At  the  edge  of  the  canal  is  a  large  stable  for  the 
canal  horses,  and  a  crowd  of  drivers,  gimners,  and 
cyclists  have  taken  refuge  there.  It  falls  apart 
when  a  great  shell  strikes  It.  A  terrible  cry  goes 
up  and  the  building  bursts  Into  flames  all  over, 
like  tow  soaked  In  oil. 

[171] 


COVERED  WITH  MUD  AND  GLORY 

No  one  knows  how  many  bodies  are  burned  to 
cinders  there.  A  frightful  odor  assails  our  nos- 
trils in  the  smoke  which  encircles  us. 

A  heavy  rolling  roar,  boring  through  the  night 
like  the  noise  of  an  express  train  coming  out  of 
a  tunnel  at  high  speed,  comes  from  over  there, 
from  the  black  hole  where  the  enemy  Is. 

*' That 's  a  terrific  fire  I  " 

"  Look  out." 

A  violent  puff,  like  a  heavy  blow,  knocks  us 
down. 

The  mules  rear  and  draw  back.  A  wagon  slides 
down  the  bank  and  falls  into  the  water,  taking  its 
animal  and  driver  with  it. 

A  shell  has  burst  on  the  bank  opposite  and  It 
has  torn  up  by  the  roots  a  large  poplar  which  falls 
across  the  canal.  It  Is  a  miracle  that  it  did  n't 
crush  a  dozen  of  us.  We  run  to  help  the  driver. 
The  water  is  shallow.  He  holds  himself  up  by 
the  weeds.  We  pull  him  out  with  the  aid  of  sev- 
eral lengths  of  whip  lash,  but  the  mule  and  the 
wagon  have  rolled  into  the  middle  of  the  canal 
and  are  lost. 

The  bombardment  continues  until  dawn,  but  less 
violently. 

[172] 


A   NIGHT    CONVOY 

A  few  shots,  the  longest,  come  near  us.  The 
pounding  continues  on  the  site  of  the  bridge,  ob- 
stinately and  stubbornly. 

We  are  still  there  at  the  first  rays  of  dawn. 

"  This  Is  exasperating.  We  can  never  get  these 
munitions  to  the  P.  C.  before  daylight." 

''  Say,  Roudon,  we  have  a  bridge  right  in  front 
of  us.     It  will  do." 

And  indeed  the  large  poplar  might  let  us  get 
across  the  canal. 

We  try  it. 

We  leave  one  man  to  guard  the  five  wagons, 
and  the  rest  detach  the  caissons  from  their  sup- 
ports, hang  them  on  our  shoulders,  and  one  after 
another  we  try  the  chance  bridge  which  bends  a 
little  but  does  not  break. 

Less  than  fifteen  minutes  later  all  the  munitions 
are  together  on  the  opposite  bank. 

We  reached  the  P.  C.  at  five  o'clock,  ex- 
hausted without  a  doubt,  but  the  order  has  been 
executed. 

When  the  artillery  officer  saw  us  arriving,  he 
started  shouting, 

"  What  do  you  want  me  to  do  with  that?  " 
[173] 


COVERED  WITH  MUD  AND  GLORY 

Roudon  repeated  the  order  he  had  received  the 
day  before. 

"  So  you  have  n't  received  the  cancellation  of 
the  order?  You  always  ought  to  wait  for  that. 
We  were  relieved  last  night.  Take  that  stuff  back 
where  you  got  it  from." 

We  carried  the  caissons  back  to  our  wagons  by 
the  same  way,  by  the  same  bridge. 

Captain  D  .  .  .  was  coming  along  the  tow- 
path  and  saw  us  arrive. 

Roudon  was  furious  as  he  told  him  about  our 
useless  adventure  which  might  have  cost  us  so 
dear. 

He  listened,  laughed,  then,  coldly: 

'*  Bah !  that  will  do  the  mules  good.  They  '11 
get  used  to  marching  at  night.  .  .  ." 


[174] 


CHAPTER   XIV 

THE    SONGS    OF   THE    HOMELAND 

FONTAINE-LES-CAPPY  is  some  hundred 
yards  from  the  lines. 

It  is  a  reserve  position  to  which  the  company 
was  sent  the  day  before  in  expectation  of  an  at- 
tack which  may  come  at  any  moment. 

It  is  raining  as  it  has  n't  stopped  raining  for 
weeks.  We  had  floundered  in  the  mud  for  five 
hours  and  were  splashed  by  an  endless  string  of 
convoys  to  get  here  from  Villers  where  the  regi- 
ment had  scarcely  begun  a  few  short  days  of  rest. 

The  men  were  tired  out  and  threw  themselves 
on  the  filthy  straw.  They  have  slept  nearly  all 
day,  and  this  evening  in  groups  they  try  their 
hardest  to  organize  a  respectable  meal  from  the 
means  at  their  disposal.  The  wine  flows  from  full 
canteens,  and  flasks  of  cheap  brandy  come  out  of 
the  packs. 

The  section  leaders  advise  them  to  save  some 
of  their  provisions  for  the  next  day. 
[175] 


COVERED  WITH  MUD  AND  GLORY 

"To-morrow I  What  do  you  think?  To- 
morrow we  '11  lunch  with  the  Boches.  You  I  I  '11 
pay  you  in  sauerkraut." 

Conversation  gradually  grew  less  amid  the  fall- 
ing darkness  and  the  smoke  of  pipes. 

The  silence  became  profound. 

The  men  are  not  sleeping.  They  think  and  re- 
member.   Sadness  and  worry  hover  about.  .  .  . 

Far  away,  hesitating,  a  voice  sings  a  prelude. 
But  that  voice  is  so  pure  and  clear  that  it  seems 
enormous,  startling,  vibrating  in  the  dull  numbness 
of  men  and  things. 

Vigne  is  humming  a  song  of  Provence,  a  hymn 
to  the  sun,  which  from  the  banks  of  the  Durance 
to  the  shores  of  the  Latin  sea,  from  the  blue  hills 
of  the  Alps  to  the  golden  flowers  of  Vacares,  the 
youths  and  maidens  of  Avignon,  Aries,  and  Mail- 
lamne  sing  as  they  return  to  the  hospitable  farm 
from  their  labors,  their  hands  entwined  for  the 
farandole,  with  eyes  full  of  smiles  and  love  for 
the  bright  sun  which  makes  them  live  and  love. 

Grand  souleu  de  la  Provengo 
Gai  coumpaire  dou  mistrau 
Tu  quescoules  la  Durenqo 
Comme  un  flot  de  vin  de  Crau, 

[176] 


THE    SONGS   OF   THE    HOMELAND 

Fai  lusi  toun  blound  caleu! 
Coucho  Voumbro  emai  li  fleu! 

Leu!  leu!  leu! 
Fai  te  veire,  beu  souleu! 

Vigne  was  sitting  in  a  corner,  elbows  on  his 
knees,  chin  between  his  hands,  his  face  lifted,  and 
singing  unconsciously,  his  eyes  on  the  distance. 

A  candle  stuck  in  the  neck  of  a  bottle  throws  a 
flickering  light  on  the  damp  ground  of  the  cellar, 
and  scarcely  separates  his  outlines  from  the 
darkness. 

Gradually  one  follows  in,  one  after  another, 
naturally,  and  they  all  begin  to  sing. 

And  music  and  rhythm  form  so  large  a  part  of 
their  natures  that  they  form  a  wonderful  choir 
where  the  thirds  and  minors  take  form  instinc- 
tively without  an  effort,  and  where  the  dream  of 
their  homeland  marks  the  time. 

And  they  sing  from  their  souls,  and  through  It 
all  Is  the  sun  of  their  beautiful  South,  the  poetry 
of  their  dawns,  the  charm  of  their  twilights,  the 
mystic  gleams  of  the  olives,  the  flight  of  the  red 
flamingoes  on  the  pools,  the  coming  down  of  the 
shepherds  from  the  perfumed  hills,  the  mad  career 
of  the  bulls  In  clouds  of  dust  on  the  white  roads 
of  Camargue,  the  gold  of  the  mimosas,  the  red  of 
[177] 


COVERED  WITH  MUD  AND  GLORY 

the  wild  popples,  the  blue  sky,  the  blue  sea,  the 

sun.   .  .   . 

Fai  lusi  .  .  . 
Fai  lusi  toun  blound  caleu. 

These  soft  voices,  monotonous,  hesitating  a 
moment  ago,  which  seemed  scarcely  awake,  now 
sound  out,  vibrant,  dashing,  sonorous. 

They  are  no  longer  uprooted  exiles  who  are 
stirred;  it  is  a  force,  a  crowd,  a  people  whom  the 
song  of  their  birthplace  awakes,  draws  together, 
cheers.    It  is  Provence  herself  that  sings. 

Outside,  the  cannon  roar  and  the  shells  fall  like 
hail  around  the  cantonment.  Great  shells  tear 
up  the  ground  with  their  gigantic  blows. 

War,  horrors,  blood,  ruins,  fear,  the  attack 
which  is  near  at  hand,  death  perhaps,  all  that 
exists  no  longer  for  them.  It  is  all  of  no  conse- 
quence to  them;  the  air  of  their  natal  song  trans- 
ports them. 

These  men  shut  up  in  dark  cellars,  in  dugouts, 
shaken  by  the  terrific  hammering  of  shells,  are 
transported  by  their  dream  to  the  bright  sunshine, 
the  bright  and  cheerful  atmosphere  of  their  south- 
ern plains.  They  sing,  and  at  once  they  are  living 
again  the  life  of  their  homeland. 
[178] 


THE   SONGS   OF   THE    HOMELAND 

Their  "  little "  country  dominates  them  and 
makes  them  valiant  and  strong  in  the  midst  of  the 
sorrows  all  about  to  attack  and  stand  up  in  defense 
of  the  Great!  .  .  . 

I  go  out  with  my  nerves  on  edge  and  my  eyes 
full  of  tears  before  the  unearthly  beauty  of  the 
scene. 

Streaks  of  light  from  the  stuffed  airholes  alone 
let  me  realize  that  men  in  large  numbers  wait 
there  underground  for  a  signal  to  dash  into  the 
fiery  furnace.  .   .  . 

I  walk  to  the  end  of  the  village  to  the  officers' 
quarters  to  calm  my  nerves. 

Voices  still  rise  In  song  on  both  sides  of  the 
road.  There,  under  my  feet  in  a  ruin  —  so  mar- 
tyred that  one  might  think  it  was  an  acropolis 
raising  prayers  of  stone  to  heaven  —  a  chorus  of 
warm  voices  scans  the  joyous  song, 

Que  canteSj  que  recantes 
Cantes  pas  per  lev, 
Cantes  per  ma  mia 
Ques  aupres  de  lev. 

Here  are  the  lads  of  Languedoc,  Nimes,  Mont- 

pellier,  the  vine  growers  of  the  plains,  the  carters 

of   Aiguesmortes,    the    harvesters    of   Toulouse 

[179] 


COVERED  WITH  MUD  AND  GLORY 

all    carried    away    by    the    evocation    of    their 
homeland. 

Oh  I  the  beautiful  song  I  How  It  puts  heart 
into  one;  more  beautiful  than  the  most  martial 
hymn  composed  in  the  harsh  technique  of  the  ink 
pots. 

It  is  the  living  expression,  simple,  spontaneous, 
natural,  of  the  people,  the  family  and  the  soil.  It 
carries  in  it  the  remembrances  of  happy  childhood, 
of  loves  bathed  in  sunshine,  the  radiant  nuptials 
In  the  mystery  of  light  and  flowers.  It  speaks  of 
the  loved  pastures,  the  paternal  roof,  the  farm, 
the  herds,  the  vines  .  .  .  and  that  is  the 
Patrle. 

Oh!  the  beautiful  song!  It  dissipates  dark 
thoughts,  fears,  uncertainties;  it  makes  lovers 
and  heroes,  electrifies  them,  and  increases  their 
strength  a  hundred  fold.  They  are  the  lads  of 
Provence  and  Languedoc  who  spread  through  the 
world  the  triumphal  "  Marseillaise."  They  are 
the  same  lads  who  despite  the  mud  and  the  dark 
night  breathe  in  their  memory  and  in  the  song  the 
re-vivifying  breath  of  their  *'  little  "  country,  who 
In  pursuit  of  the  routed  enemy  make  the  "  Mar- 
seillaise "  victorious  again,  victorious  alway. 
[i8o] 


THE   SONGS   OF   THE    HOMELAND 

At  the  end  of  the  village  In  a  house  at  the  side 
of  the  road  to  Chuignolles,  a  feeble  light  filters 
through  the  canvas  which  takes  the  place  of 
shutters. 

The  officers  are  quartered  here.  Lieutenant 
Casanova  is  stretched  out  on  a  mattress  on 
the  ground,  smoking  and  dreaming  over  his 
eternal  cigarette.  Lieutenant  Delpos  leaning 
on  a  box  which  serves  him  for  a  table,  is  read- 
ing, by  the  light  of  a  lantern,  an  illustrated 
novel. 

I  look  over  his  shoulder.  They  are  rather 
sprightly,  suggestive  illustrations,  reinforced  with 
a  vengeance  by  the  fervid  imagination  and  second- 
hand talent  of  the  readers  who  have  handed  it 
around. 

The  wind  and  rain  rage  outside  the  window. 
Poor  weather  for  an  attack. 

"  I  'm  sure  that  we  Ve  come  here  for  nothing.'' 

"  Oh,  that  can  be  launched  at  any  time." 

"  I  should  be  much  surprised  if  it  came  this 
evening." 

"  Listen." 

A  heavy,  faraway,  continuous  rumble,  like  the 
beating  of  a  drum,  is  heard  just  then. 
[i8i] 


COVERED  WITH  MUD  AND  GLORY 

The  sound  seems  to  come  from  the  direction  of 
Lihons  and  to  get  nearer  by  degrees. 

In  the  midst  of  the  fusillade  we  hear  distinctly 
the  regular  crackle  of  the  machine  guns. 

Suddenly,  a  terrific  fire  breaks  out  opposite  us. 
D  .  .  .  company,  which  we  are  to  support,  must 
have  gone  into  action. 

"  That 's  getting  close." 

We  go  out.  The  road  forms  a  sort  of  embank- 
ment at  this  spot,  which  is  forbidden  during  the 
daytime,  and  from  which  we  look  toward  the 
lines. 

A  great  light  has  risen.  More  and  more  fre- 
quent bursts  of  shrapnel  at  this  distance  have  the 
effect  of  immense  red  Venetian  lanterns,  tossed 
about  by  the  wind  in  the  dark  night. 

Rockets  go  up  suddenly  on  our  right. 

That  is  a  call  for  the  artillery.  The  expected 
attack  is  probably  taking  place  over  there.  We 
have  been  placed  In  reserve  for  fear  that  the  at- 
tack might  widen  out  on  the  sector,  but  it  Is  prob- 
able that  we  shall  not  have  to  intervene. 

"  It  looks  as  though  it  were  quieting  down 
there  in  front." 

"Hum!    You '11  see." 

[182] 


THE    SONGS   OF   THE    HOMELAND 

Lieutenant  Casanova  has  had  great  experience 
in  battles,  and  he  Is  n't  taken  by  surprise  by  appar- 
ent lulls.  On  the  contrary.  Silence  is  what  he 
dreads  most. 

''  You  '11  see." 

And  as  a  matter  of  fact  we  did  n't  have  long  to 
wait.  ...  A  tornado  of  shells  falls  between  the 
lines  and  our  cantonment.  This  is  immediately 
followed  by  another,  then  still  another,  all  in  a 
couple  of  minutes. 

It  Is  a  barrage  of  "  77's,"  effected  by  a  battery 
which  has  taken  us  In  its  fire. 

"  I  certainly  think  that  something  is  going  to 
happen." 

"  Go  and  tell  the  section  leaders  to  get  their 
men  together  and  to  have  them  ready." 

I  go  Into  the  night  in  search  of  the  canton- 
ment. 

All  the  men  are  awake.  The  corporals  and 
sergeants  have  foreseen  the  order  and  everyone  is 
waiting. 

The  shells  and  the  fire  of  our  rifles  and  our 
machine  guns  Is  only  one  frightful  uproar  in  which 
all  noises  are  confounded. 

As  I  return  toward  the  officers  badly  aimed 
[183] 


COVERED  WITH  MUD  AND  GLORY 

spent  machine-gun  bullets  whistle  In  the  trees 
above. 

"  All  we  can  do  Is  to  wait.  If  they  need  us, 
they  '11  call  us." 

As  he  said  this  the  ever-Imperturbable  Lieuten- 
ant Casanova  went  back  into  his  quarters  and  we 
followed  him. 

"  I  suggest  poker,"  said  Delpos.  "  I  '11  go  and 
find  the  cards." 

''  Three-handed  poker  is  too  risky." 

''  Well,  here  's  a  fourth." 

Someone  raised  the  canvas  which  serv^ed  as  a 
door. 

It 's  an  intelligence  officer  from  the  colonel. 

"  Lieutenant,  D  .  .  .  company  is  running  out 
of  munitions.  Pass  yours  to  them  and  send  back 
for  new  supplies.     Here  's  the  order." 

The  lieutenant  read  the  order  and  said: 

"  All  right.    It  will  be  done." 

Hardly  twenty  minutes  later,  ten  men  from 
each  section,  each  carrying  four  caissons,  were 
assembled  on  the  way  out  of  the  village. 

D  .  .  .  company's  position,  which  we  marked 
yesterday,  Is  about  six  hundred  yards  away  and 
some  yards  beyond  the  ridge  of  the  plateau  be- 
[184] 


THE   SONGS   OF   THE    HOMELAND 

tween  the  main  road  from  Amiens  and  the  Somme. 
There  's  little  chance  of  losing  the  way,  for  It  Is 
downhill.  We  might  pass  through  the  fields  but 
thirty  yards  before  reaching  the  trench  the  ground 
is  literally  swept  with  shells.  It  Is  Impossible  to 
use  the  communication  trench.  The  enemy  ar- 
tillery has  located  It  mathematically  and  has  com- 
pletely destroyed  It.  The  shells  fall  there  without 
a  let-up.  The  least  dangerous  passage  is  the 
unprotected  ground. 

Stretched  out  In  the  mud,  the  head  of  one 
against  the  heels  of  the  other,  our  men  form  an 
endless  chain  on  the  terrain  which  extends  from 
the  sheltered  ridge  to  the  fire  trench.  They  pass 
along  the  caissons  by  a  simple  movement  of  the 
arms,  without  raising  their  bodies  or  their  heads. 

In  the  same  way  and  by  the  same  means,  crawl- 
ing along,  I  reach  the  trenches  in  my  turn  and 
fall  In. 

Captain  D  ...  is  there,  striding  from  one  gun 
to  another,  encouraging  his  men  and  hurrying 
their  fire. 

"  I  was  sure  that  I  was  going  to  run  out  of  am- 
munition. They  were  already  within  one  hundred 
and  fifty  yards." 

[  185  ] 


COVERED  WITH  MUD  AND  GLORY 

"  We  Ve  passed  you  one  hundred  and  sixty 
caissons.  We  Ve  sent  men  for  more  and  they  '11 
be  here  in  half  an  hour." 

*'  We  don't  need  any  more.  It 's  all  over. 
Their  attempt  is  broken.  By  daylight  we  '11  see 
more  than  two  hundred  bodies  in  front  of  our 
barbed  wire.  You  can  go.  I  thank  you.  Take 
my  regards  and  thanks  to  Lieutenant  Casanova." 

The  firing  continued  all  night,  sometimes  inter- 
mittently, sometimes  in  violent  salvos,  so  that  one 
might  imagine  that  the  enemy  was  making  another 
attack. 

At  dawn  we  only  heard  rare,  isolated  detona- 
tions. 

Our  men  returned  to  the  cantonment  uninjured. 
There  were  a  few  scratches  and  slight  wounds  in 
the  hands,  but  there  was  no  discharge  in  sight. 

Some  of  them  had  had  narrow  escapes.  Bullets 
had  ricochetted  and  gone  through  the  steel  hel- 
mets. Linari's  was  perforated  with  a  round,  well- 
defined  hole.  The  bullet  had  gone  out  close  to 
the  ear. 

They  were  exhausted  by  lack  of  sleep,  and  after 
eating  a  meal  hastily  thrown  together  from  the 
[i86] 


THE   SONGS   OF   THE    HOMELAND 

things  at  hand,  they  started  for  their  underground 

shelters. 

Just  then  the  sun  rose  shining  brightly. 

In  the  sky,  washed  by  weeks  of  rain,  it  was  so 

clear  and  smiling  with  warmth  that  one  would 

have  thought  it  was  a  sunrise  in  the  South. 
''  Say,    this    morning    that 's    the   sun    of    the 

South!" 

"  What 's  it  doing  here?    It 's  made  a  mistake." 
"  Beautiful  sun!     Indeed,  there  's  only  you." 
And  in  the  pure  morning  air,  these  peasants  of 

Provence  saluted  the  rising  sun  by  shouting  the 

joyous   song   which,    a    few   hours   before,    had 

brightened  their  night. 

Gran  souleii  de  la  Prouvenqo 
Fai  lusi  toun  blound  caleii. 

The  attack  was  heavy;  it  is  over.  They  have 
come  back  from  it.  They  are  still  alive.  We  must 
begin  all  over  again,  to-night,  perhaps;  possibly 
this  evening;  perhaps  in  an  hour.  Death  lurks 
everywhere.  What  difference  does  it  make? 
This  morning  the  sun  rose  radiandy.    They  sing ! 


[187] 


CHAPTER   XV 

A   WATER    PATROL 

FOR  several  days  the  Germans  had  been  at 
work  making  changes  opposite  our  salient 
on  the  banks  of  the  Somme.  Probably  it  was  a 
machine-gun  emplacement  to  prevent  any  attempt 
at  attack  from  that  side.  But  as  there  must  be 
no  obstacle  in  the  way  of  our  next  advance,  the 
major,  after  talking  with  the  colonel,  sent  for 
Lieutenant  Delpos,  who  was  in  charge  of  the 
section  in  that  sector  and  asked  him  what  he 
thought  of  the  work. 

*'  It 's  hard  to  say,"  he  answered.  "  If  they  Ve 
brought  two  or  three  machine  guns  it  will  be 
humanly  impossible  even  to  try  to  advance.  It 
all  depends  on  the  importance  of  the  work.  We 
can't  tell  from  here  what  it  is." 

"  Our  aeroplane  observations  and  photographs 
don't  tell  us  anything,"  said  the  major.  "  The 
view  is  partly  cut  off  by  the  tops  of  the  trees  along 
the  river." 

[i88] 


A   WATER    PATROL 

"  Aeroplane  observations  are  n't  everything," 
answered  Delpos. 

"  But  I  can't  send  a  patrol  over  such  unpro- 
tected ground.  It  would  be  utterly  wiped  out 
before  It  discovered  anything." 

'*  Will  you  give  me  an  order,"  asked  Delpos, 
"  to  make  a  reconnaissance  In  whatever  way  I 
think  best?  In  twenty- four  hours,  at  the  latest, 
I  think  I  can  bring  you  the  exact  details." 

''  Go  ahead.  Do  your  best.  I  '11  send  you  a 
written  order  to  cover  It." 

When  he  got  back  to  his  post.  Lieutenant  Del- 
pos examined  the  strip  of  terrain  as  thoroughly  as 
he  could  by  peering  over  the  top  of  the  parapet, 
and  then  asked  for  the  photographs  the  aero- 
planes had  taken.  Finally,  he  studied  the  map 
of  the  country  which  the  enemy  occupied  opposite 
us.  Then,  he  went  to  Eclusler,  borrowed  a  boat, 
and  stayed  out  In  the  current  calculating  Its  direc- 
tion by  bunches  of  grass  pulled  from  the  banks. 

He  came  back  to  the  company  towards  noon 
and  sent  me  to  the  echelon  for  Gondran,  whom 
I  brought  back  about  three  o'clock.  At  seven 
Delpos  had  his  plans  made.  He  went  to  the 
major,  who  received  him  at  once,  and  explained 

[189  J 


COVERED  WITH  MUD  AND  GLORY 

the  project  he  wanted  to  put  Into  execution  that 
evening. 

Delpos  asked  him,  as  it  would  probably  be 
useful  In  distracting  attention,  to  have  the  sections 
at  the  extreme  north  of  the  sector  fire  several 
heavy  volleys  between  eleven  o'clock  and  mid- 
night. 

When  this  was  arranged,  everything  was  ready 
for  his  departure  and  he  Invited  me  to  dinner  as 
he  ordinarily  did.  His  dinners  were  always  good 
and  there  was  excellent  wine  which  his  servant 
had  managed  to  find  In  the  ruins  of  Harbonniere 
and  Villers. 

As  he  was  lighting  his  cigar  after  the  dessert, 
he  said: 

"  We  're  going  to  pay  a  call  on  the  Boches  this 
evening.  The  chances  of  staying  there  are  about 
even,  but,  in  any  case,  even  if  we  remain,  the  per- 
formance won't  be  uninteresting.  It  will  be  as 
good  as  a  first  night  at  the  '  Grand-Gulgnol !  ' 
Take  your  revolver,  some  grenades  and  come 
along." 

I  would  have  been  highly  unappreciatlve  to 
have  refused  such  a  kind  Invitation,  although  ad- 
venture, to  say  nothing  of  such  a  mad  adventure, 
[  190] 


A   WATER    PATROL 

has  never  been  to  my  taste.  But  Lieutenant  Del- 
pos  had  the  reputation  of  always  getting  out,  so 
why  should  n't  he  get  out  this  time. 

Gondran  was  waiting  for  us  a  little  ways  from 
Eclusier,  in  a  small  creek,  hidden  under  the  trees. 

Gondran  and  his  boat ! 

It  was  one  of  those  flat-bottomed,  square-ended 
boats  that  fishermen  use  to  cross  marshes  where 
the  water  is  shallow.  He  had  covered  it  with  a 
camouflage  of  grass,  weeds,  and  moss  so  that  even 
close  to  it  was  impossible  to  tell  it  from  one  of  the 
thousand  little  islands  which  obstruct  the  Somme 
at  this  point. 

We  slipped  into  the  boat  and  stretched  out  at 
once  —  it  would  n't  have  held  us  in  any  other 
way  —  and  waited  for  total  darkness.  When  it 
came,  Gondran  began  to  push  the  boat  ahead. 
He  was  used  to  fishing  for  eels  with  a  spear  in  the 
clear  waters  of  the  canals  and  knew  how  to  move 
silently,  without  a  splash,  almost  without  making 
a  ripple  on  the  surface  of  the  water.  If  our 
course  had  not  been  against  the  current,  we  might 
have  been  mistaken  for  a  pile  of  drifting  grass. 

Flat  on  his  stomach  in  the  stern  with  both  arms 
in  the  water  up  to  his  elbows  and  a  stick  of  wood 
[191] 


COVERED  WITH  MUD  AND  GLORY 

In  each  hand,  slowly  and  silently  he  paddled  like 
a  duck. 

The  officer  and  I  were  both  flat  also,  In  the  bow, 
and  we  peered  into  the  darkness.  I  held  a  string 
In  one  hand,  and  the  other  end  was  tied  around 
Gondran's  arm.  We  had  arranged  that  one  pull 
meant  to  stop  and  stay  where  we  were;  two  to  go 
back. 

We  went  on  without  accident  for  nearly  two 
hours.  Suddenly,  a  bump,  a  hard  jolt,  fortunately 
without  any  noise  besides  the  rustling  of  the 
weeds.  The  night  was  so  thick  that  It  was  Im- 
possible to  tell  what  the  obstacle  was,  whether  it 
was  the  bank  or  an  island.  We  tried  In  vain  to 
see  through  the  fathomless  darkness.  We  ven- 
tured to  feel  about  with  our  hands,  and,  in  the 
middle  of  the  weeds  and  reeds,  I  was  gripped  by 
something.  I  pulled  back  my  arm,  In  a  hurry,  to 
get  away.  A  sharp  point  cut  the  skin,  then  an- 
other, and  I  felt  a  scratch  from  my  elbow  to  my 
fist. 

I  whispered  m  Delpos's  ear,  "  Barbed  wire." 

A  network  of  barbed  wire  barred  the  river 
here.  The  Germans  had  foreseen  the  possibilities 
of  an  approach  and  had  taken  precautions  to  pre- 
[192] 


A   WATER    PATROL 

vent  it.  Was  the  network  large,  or  was  there 
only  a  single  barrier,  that  was  the  question.  Or, 
should  we  go  back?  In  any  case  there  was  no  use 
in  re-appearing  before  we  were  expected,  for  we 
had  reached  their  lines. 

Since  the  work  under  suspicion  was  a  little  in 
advance  of  their  first  trench,  we  must  be  nearly 
even  with  it.  We  had  brought  wire  cutters,  but 
what  was  the  use  of  cutting  the  first  net,  if  we 
were  to  find  another  beyond  it,  and  then  another, 
and  so  on  for  fifty  or  a  hundred  yards  perhaps. 

The  enemy  is  meticulous  in  his  defenses  and 
spares  no  means  of  protecting  himself.  It  was 
also  a  question  whether  we  were  In  the  middle 
of  the  river  or  near  the  bank.  By  shoving  his 
paddle  down  at  arm's  length  Gondran  touched 
bottom.  So  we  were  going  to  reach  the  bank,  but 
first  we  must  prepare  for  our  retreat.  Using  the 
barbed  wire  as  a  guide,  we  put  the  boat  out  into  the 
middle  of  the  river,  but  not  In  the  strength  of  the 
current,  and  then  on  a  stick  we  had  brought  along 
set  up  a  dummy  dressed  in  the  uniform  of  one  of 
the  Colonials.    Then  we  went  back  to  the  bank. 

Here  was  the  most  ticklish  and  dangerous  mo- 
ment of  our  mission.  What,  we  asked  ourselves, 
[193] 


COVERED  WITH  MUD  AND  GLORY 

was  the  shape  of  the  bank  and  would  we  find  a 
sentinel?  We  brought  the  boat  as  near  the  shore 
as  possible  and  in  as  far  as  we  could.  By  feeling 
to  the  right  we  could  touch  solid  ground.  The 
time  had  come !  .  .  .  We  glided  from  the  boat 
like  snakes  and  once  on  land  remained  motionless, 
holding  our  breaths.  It  was  Impossible  to  see 
anything  a  yard  off;  there  was  no  noise  except  the 
far-off  rumbling  of  the  guns  In  the  English  sector. 
We  went  ahead.  .  .  .  The  heavy  socks  we  had 
drawn  over  our  boots  deadened  our  steps.  The 
damp  grass  bent  but  did  not  crackle. 

"  Conrad!     Come  here.     It  is  time." 

"What  time?" 

"  Nearly  midnight." 

"  Good." 

"  The  lieutenant  is  n't  here." 

"No?" 

"  He  is  with  the  major  and  will  come  back." 

"  Come  along." 

"  But  there  's  no  one  here." 

"What  of  it?    Come  along." 

This  conversation  in  German  stopped  us  short. 
The  voices  seemed  to  come  from  the  ground  two 
steps  in  front  of  us.  Doubtless  there  was  a  sap 
[  194  ] 


A    WATER    PATROL 

there.  .  .  .  We  heard  steps  getting  farther  away. 
I  grabbed  the  officer  and  making  a  megaphone  of 
my  hands  whispered  in  his  ear  what  I  had  just 
understood  from  their  conversation.  In  the  same 
way,  he  responded: 

"  Inviting  you  was  an  inspiration.  Since 
they  've  gone,  we  can  get  in  there." 

A  few  steps  beyond  in  the  open  ground  a  feeble 
light  filtered  through  sacks  hung  as  shutters.  It 
was  the  sap!  .  .  .  We  stretched  out  on  the 
ground  and  tried  to  see  inside.  There  was  no  one 
standing,  but  if  anyone  was  left  he  must  be  asleep, 
and  we  could  surprise  him.  .  .  .  We  jumped  in. 
Not  a  soul.  Without  a  doubt  it  was  a  post  mo- 
mentarily empty  during  a  relief.  On  some  over- 
turned chairs  there  was  a  platter  with  a  candle  on 
it  and  we  put  It  out.  We  examined  the  place  with 
our  flashlight.  A  communication  trench  opened 
Into  the  post  and  we  started  down. 

No  matter  where  it  led  or  whether  we  could 
retrace  our  steps  or  not,  the  die  was  cast.  The 
number  of  chances  of  our  getting  back  alive  which 
Delpos  had  said  were  even  seemed  to  me  to  have 
grown  beautifully  less.  The  trench  stopped  short 
within  ten  yards.  Ahead,  to  the  right,  to  the  left, 
[195] 


COVERED  WITH  MUD  AND  GLORY 

we  stuck  our  noses  Into  the  solid  wall.  But  the 
men  had  got  out  someway.  .  .  . 

Delpos  risked  another  flash  of  his  light  — 
the  way  out  was  over  our  heads.  It  was  a  shaft 
with  a  ladder  leading  up  it.  We  heard  some- 
one talking  above.  The  relief  was  coming 
down.   .  .  . 

Just  then  the  noise  of  firing  came  from  our  own 
lines.  The  sections  were  firing  as  had  been  ar- 
ranged. This  wise  precaution  served  beyond  our 
utmost  expectations,  for  above  us  began  at  once 
the  rapid  tac-tac  of  the  machine  guns  and  we 
heard  commands. 

So  the  shaft  led  into  the  machine-gun  emplace- 
ment. That  was  just  what  we  wanted  to  know; 
our  reconnaissance  was  at  an  end. 

Delpos  drove  a  cheddite  bomb  into  the  wall 
beneath  the  ladder,  and  I  tied  a  slow  fuse  to  it. 
We  jumped  towards  the  river.  I  lighted  the 
fuse  as  I  jumped  from  the  sap,  just  as  an  immense 
body  appeared  in  the  opening  and  blocked  the 
way. 

''  Wer  da? '' 

'''Wer  daf  you'll  find  out  who  Is  there," 
Delpos  muttered,  and  with  a  blow  full  on  the 
[196] 


A   WATER    PATROL 

chest,  while  I  threw  myself  on  his  legs,  we  got 
the  colossus  down,  as  he  shouted  for  help. 

But  the  firing  drowned  his  cries. 

Then,  to  deprive  him  of  all  interest  in  keep- 
ing on,  I  applied  my  revolver  to  his  forehead, 
and  Delpos  kicked  him  under  the  chin.  We  left 
him  senseless  and  voiceless  for  at  least  a  quarter 
of  an  hour. 

We  jumped  into  our  boat  and  slid  under  the 
camouflage.  Whether  we  had  made  too  much 
noise  or  a  sentinel  had  heard  us,  I  don't  know, 
but  we  were  hardly  there,  and  were  just  pushing 
off,  when  shots  came  in  our  direction,  star  shells 
lighted  the  river,  and  men  ran  up  and  down  the 
bank. 

We  heard  them  cry,  ''  There  he  is  .  .  . 
there.  .  .  ."  They  had  seen  our  dummy  in  the 
middle  of  the  river  and  were  firing  at  him  with 
rifles  and  bombarding  him  with  grenades.  We 
did  not  move.  By  stretching  out  an  arm  we  could 
almost  have  touched  the  legs  of  the  men  who  came 
down  to  the  water's  edge  to  hurl  their  grenades. 
None  of  them  dreamed  we  were  so  near. 

The  alarm  lasted  about  twenty  seconds;  it 
seemed  like  a  century. 

[  197] 


COVERED  WITH  MUD  AND  GLORY 

We  knew  that  the  blockhouse  was  going  to 
blow  up  and  we  wanted  to  be  far  away  for  the 
debris  were  likely  to  reach  us  and  crush  us. 

Suddenly,  terribly,  came  the  explosion. 

It  was  fortunate  for  us  that  the  alarm  had 
held  us  close  to  the  bank.  Whole  blocks  of 
granite  were  hurled  into  the  middle  of  the  river 
just  where  we  would  have  been.  We  were  too 
near  and  too  low  and  everything  went  over  us. 

The  violence  of  the  waves  tore  us  from  the 
bank  and  drove  us  into  the  strength  of  the  cur- 
rent, and  we  were  n't  fired  on  once.  The  whole 
garrison  had  been  blown  up. 

At  daybreak,  three  o'clock  In  the  morning. 
Lieutenant  Delpos  woke  up  the  major. 

"  Major,"  he  said,  "  it  was  a  machine-gun  em- 
placement. But  it  is  no  more.  If  you  will  allow 
me,  I  'm  going  to  bed.  I  could  n't  get  any  sleep 
over  there;  there  was  too  much  noise. 


[198] 


CHAPTER   XVI 

A   COMMANDER 

AT  the  beginning  of  June,  the  colonel's  re- 
^  port  informed  us  that  the  major  of  Battal- 
ion C  ..  .  had  been  assigned  to  the  .  .  .  first 
Colonials. 

The  battalion  commandant's  post  was  next  to 
ours  on  the  ridge  of  the  quarry. 

Since  the  departure  of  Major  L  ...  the  cap- 
tain adjutant-major,  who  was  assuming  the  com- 
mand in  the  interim,  was  quartered  there.  He 
was  devoting  himself  to  his  ablutions  in  the  open 
place  in  front  of  his  dugout  and  at  the  same  time 
telling  Lieutenants  C  .  .  .  and  D  .  .  .,  his 
neighbors,  an  uproarious  adventure  of  his  last 
leave,  when  a  man,  tall  and  spare,  with  hollowed 
cheeks,  sunburned  skin,  eyes  deep  and  shining, 
modestly  dressed,  —  a  mechanic's  blue  trousers, 
badly  fitting  and  muddy  boots,  regulation  trooper's 
jacket,  with  no  mark  to  show  his  rank,  —  came 
out  of  the  sort  of  tunnel  In  which  the  La  Vache 
[199] 


COVERED  WITH  MUD  AND  GLORY 

trench  ended,  and  stopped  as  if  undecided,  in 
front  of  our  dugouts. 

There  was  a  mounted  scout  there  who  was  occu- 
pying himself  in  cutting  out  a  ring,  and  he  asked 
him, 

"  The  post  of  the  major  of  the  .  .  .  first 
battalion?  " 

Without  stopping  his  work,  the  man  indicated 
our  group  with  his  hand.     He  advanced  shyly. 

''The  .  .  .  first  battalion?" 

"  This  is  it,"  said  the  adjutant-major,  drawing 
his  wet  head  from  the  canvas  bucket  in  which  he 
was  plunging. 

"I  am  Major  C  .  .  ." 

"  Oh,  Major,  I  beg  your  pardon.  I  did  n't 
know  .  .  ."  mopping  his  face  rapidly,  and  put- 
ting on  his  tunic  which  his  orderly  handed  to  him. 

Without  a  word,  the  unperturbed  figure, 
Major  C  .  .  .,  looked  off  into  the  distance,  be- 
yond material  things,  waited  for  him  to  finish 
his  toilet,  and  then  entered  into  the  P.  C.  to  take 
possession  of  his  new  post. 

None  of  us  who  lived  constantly  in  his  imme- 
date  neighborhood  ever  knew  any  other  expres- 
[  200  ] 


A    COMMANDER 

sion  on  his  firm,  cold,  almost  mystical  face.  His 
hair  was  poorly  cut,  his  beard  was  thin  and  long, 
and  his  voice  was  gentle,  very  gentle,  so  gentle 
that  one  might  call  it  a  sad  sing-song.  All  in  all 
he  had  none  of  the  outward  appearance  of  the 
conventional  commander. 

Nevertheless  he  was  one  of  the  best. 

Good  reputations,  they  say,  take  longest  to 
establish.  Only  legends  come  to  life  spontane- 
ously. His  kindliness  and  honesty  must  have  be- 
longed to  the  legends,  because  in  less  than  a  week 
there  was  not  a  single  man  in  the  battalion  who 
did  not  speak  of  him  with  respect  and  admiration. 

''  He  's  a  chic  type,"  they  said. 

''  He  's  a  man." 

And  the  men,  who  love  to  see  their  commander 
among  them,  living  their  life,  sharing  their  labors 
and  fatigue,  experiencing  the  same  trials,  knew  at 
once  that  he  did  not  belong  to  that  distant  and 
unknown  hierarchy  which  transmits  its  orders 
from  an  ivory  throne. 

From  the  day  he  took  over  his  command,  he 
wanted  to  see  everything  for  himself  and  all  the 
positions  in  the  sector. 

[201  ] 


COVERED  WITH  MUD  AND  GLORY 

With  his  knotty  baton  in  his  hand,  he  went 
through  all  the  communication  trenches,  the  first- 
line  trenches,  into  the  saps,  verified  the  riflemen's 
posts,  and,  it  was  said,  spent  nights  in  the  picket 
posts. 

When  the  battalion  relieved  the  38th  at  Me- 
haricourt,  the  commandant's  post  which  was  as- 
signed to  the  major  was  in  an  immense  house  in 
the  middle  of  a  park  which  was  not  much 
destroyed. 

Since  the  day  before,  however,  the  artillery  had 
established  an  observation  tower  in  a  poplar  and 
had  foreseen  that  it  would  hardly  be  prudent  to 
occupy  the  house.  It  would  be  shelled  if  the  bat- 
tery were  spotted. 

The  commander  learned  this,  and  without  say- 
ing a  word  established  his  things  all  the  same 
in  the  salon  which  he  used  for  an  office  and 
bedroom. 

The  first  night  and  the  next  morning  passed 
without  incident  —  not  a  single  shot  from  the 
Boche  lines.    Aeroplanes  flew  over  at  daybreak. 

He  had  invited  to  lunch,  as  was  his  custom, 
when  we  were  in  cantonment,  the  doctor,  his  cap- 
[  202  ] 


A    COMMANDER 

tain  adjutant-major,   and  the  engineer  officer  In 
charge  of  the  sector. 

My  relations  with  him  dated  back  before  the 
war,  so  I  was  with  him  often,  and  he  frequently 
kept  me  at  the  table  with  his  guests.  I  was  there 
that  day. 

We  had  scarcely  sat  down  when  they  began  to 
talk  of  Portugal's  entrance  Into  the  war.  The  en- 
gineer was  the  manager  of  a  political  paper  and 
his  remarks  were  so  keen  that  we  were  all  inter- 
ested, and  even  the  servants  stopped  to  listen. 

Just  then  a  shell,  the  first  In  two  days,  burst 
somewhere  In  the  neighborhood.  The  glasses 
rattled  on  the  table ;  we  could  hear  things  falling, 
and  people  running  by  In  the  street. 

The  conversation  stopped. 

The  major,  who  had  been  as  silent  as  usual 
during  the  meal,  spoke  up  In  his  quiet  voice : 

"  They  say  that  their  artillery  Is  excellent  .  .  . 
It  comes  from  Creusit  "  —  and  he  engaged  the 
journalist  In  a  historical  discussion  about  the  arma- 
ment and  strength  of  Portugal,  which  showed  a 
deep  knowledge  of  the  country.  In  spite  of  Its  un- 
expected and  recent  entrance  Into  the  ranks  of  the 
Allies. 

[203] 


COVERED  WITH  MUD  AND  GLORY 

The  journalist  seemed  to  take  a  lively  interest 
in  this  conversation  which  he  had  started,  but  he 
instinctively  turned  his  eyes  to  the  windows  every 
time  a  shell  burst,  for  now  explosions  far  and 
near,  the  screeching  of  shells  and  the  falling  of 
walls  indicated  clearly  that  we  were  the  center 
of  a  bombardment. 

At  each  explosion  the  doctor  looked  at  the 
adjutant-major,  who  kept  on  eating  quietly,  as  if 
to  say,  *'  Are  you  going  to  stay  here  much 
longer?  " 

The  explosions  came  nearer  and  all  around  us. 
We  could  see  plainly  the  bits  of  steel  which 
whistled  by  the  windows,  grazing  the  walls  which 
they  destroyed.  We  could  hear  the  plaster  falling 
down  the  staircase. 

As  the  servant  brought  the  desserts  —  a  Cam- 
embert,  crackers,  fruit,  and  white  wine  —  a  vio- 
lent explosion  of  a  new  arrival  nearby  tore  the 
window,  stuffed  with  paper,  from  its  hinges  and 
the  draught  of  air  half  overturned  the  orderly 
who  let  the  platter  fall  on  the  table,  to  the  great 
damage  of  the  tablecloth  where  the  white  wine 
ran  out.  .   .  . 

^'  Bigre!  "  said  the  major. 
[204] 


A    COMMANDER 

''  I  think  It 's  time  to  get  into  the  cellar." 

The  engineer  was  only  waiting  for  this  invita- 
tion to  stop  the  conversation  and  was  half  out  of 
his  chair  when  the  major  took  his  arm  and  sat 
him  down  again. 

''  In  short,  Portugal  owed  its  title  of  Historical 
Conquistador  to  Its  navy." 

And  he  began  to  relate  the  records  of  that 
valorous  nation  on  the  sea  from  the  time  these 
people  on  the  Tagus  served  In  the  Carthaginian 
triremes  to  Vasco  da  Gama,  Magellan,  Cabral, 
Bartholomew  Diaz.  Never  was  conversation 
more  polished,  imaginative,  and  undisturbed. 

A  terrific  explosion  shook  the  house ;  part  of  the 
roof  rolled  down  the  staircase;  the  cook  and  the 
waiter  jumped  into  the  hall. 

"Well,  what  is  it?" 

''  Major,  it  fell  in  the  garden,  ten  feet  from  the 
kitchen." 

''  The  gentlemen  are  waiting  for  their  coffee. 
Bring  it." 

The  doctor  could  stand  no  more,  alleged  that 
perhaps  there  were  wounded  waiting  for  him  at 
the  dressing  station,  and  asked  permission  to 
withdraw. 

[205] 


COVERED  WITH  MUD  AND  GLORY 

The  servants  brought  in  the  boiling  coffee  in  a 
hurry,  and  he  got  up  to  go,  as  the  commander 
said: 

"  We  '11  go  along  with  you.  We  '11  see  whether 
the  shells  have  done  much  damage  in  the  canton- 
ment." 

"  But,  Commander,  do  you  think  it 's  prudent 
to  venture  out  in  the  streets  just  now?  " 

"  It 's  my  opinion,  gentlemen,  that  the  Ger- 
mans, who  obviously  wanted  to  furnish  the  music 
for  our  meal,  should  know  that  we  've  finished  " 
—  and  he  lighted  his  cigar  and  went  out  on  the 
steps. 

The  neighborhood  was  badly  shattered  indeed. 
Large  holes  blocked  the  street;  the  artillery  ob- 
servatory had  been  hit  by  a  well-aimed  shell,  had 
fallen  on  a  shed  and  crushed  it.  Immense  craters 
had  appeared  here  and  there  in  the  garden  and 
the  whole  front  of  the  house  was  splashed  with 
steel. 

The  enemy's  fire  was  letting  up ;  it  had  almost 
ceased. 

Heads  now  appeared  at  the  air-holes  of  the 
cellars  trying  to  see  what  had  happened. 

We  followed  the  commander  along  the  main 
[206] 


A    COMMANDER 

street  which  led  to  the  dressing  post.  An  aero- 
plane in  the  azure  sky,  a  small  silver  bird  shining 
in  the  sun,  went  on  its  giddy  way. 

With  our  noses  in  the  air,  we  watched  It  pass. 
The  whistle  of  a  shell  approached  with  a  noise 
like  a  panting  locomotive. 

''  There  's  the  last." 

A  frightful  crash,  a  cloud  of  greenish  smoke, 
bricks  and  timbers   fall  .   .  .  cries  .  .  . 

The  villa  we  had  just  left  re-appeared  with  a 
large  yawning  hole,  its  walls  burning  and  fallen 
apart.  The  last  shell  had  fallen  Into  the  dining 
room! 

His  courage  and  coolness  were  not  calculated 
or  put  on;  they  were  not  an  effort  of  the  will. 
They  were  natural. 

He  was  a  fatalist  like  all  who  have  lived  long 
In  Eastern  countries.  What  he  had  above  all  was 
a  powerful  control  of  himself  and  a  sovereign 
contempt  for  danger. 

He  had  an  absolutely  definite  conviction  that 
he  would  be  killed  In  the  next  attack.  He  had 
so  thoroughly  accustomed  himself  to  the  idea 
that  as  a  result  he  had  made  all  arrangements 
and  now  awaited  the  hour.  In  the  meanwhile 
[207] 


COVERED  WITH  MUD  AND  GLORY 

doing  his  duty  as  a  commander  honorably  and 
simply. 

One  evening  I  went  to  greet  him  at  his  canton- 
ment at  Froissy  —  he  was  going  on  leave  the  next 
day  —  I  asked  him,  among  other  things,  if  it 
would  be  agreeable  to  him,  if  I  used  his  hoises 
while  he  was  gone. 

"  My  horses?  I  have  no  further  use  for  them. 
They  can't  follow  me  through  the  trenches  and 
barbed  wire  —  to  the  front;  coming  back  .  .  . 
they  '11  bring  me  in  a  canvas.  They  '11  serve  my 
successor." 

It  would  have  been  perfectly  useless  to  protest. 

After  a  moment  of  silence  when  he  seemed  to 
be  keenly  interested  in  the  ripples  of  the  water  in 
the  canal,  he  went  on : 

*'  I  'm  going  on  leave  to-morrow,  to  bid  good-by 
to  mine.  That  will  be  the  last.  What  are  you 
doing  this  evening?  " 

"  Nothing,  Commander." 

"  Do  you  want  to  make  a  tour  of  the  sector 
with  me?  " 

"  At  your  orders,  Commander." 

By  the  last  red  rays  of  the  sun  setting  on  the 
heights  to  the  north  of  the  Somme,  we  reached  the 
[208] 


A    COMMANDER 

lines  through  the  open  path  which  passed  by  the 
camp  kitchens  and  reached  the  hill  of  the  Chateau 
de  Cappy. 

Twilight  passed,  followed  by  the  most  varied 
colors. 

The  red  sun  as  it  plunged  behind  the  black 
poplars  on  the  wide  horizon  flooded  the  sky  with 
a  great  yellow  light,  fiery,  burning  yellow,  like 
the  gold  of  flames  which  gradually  grew  thin  and 
pale,  and  became  light  like  an  Immense  head  of 
hair. 

A  little  later  mauve  and  violet  precursors  of 
approaching  clouds  passed  slowly  from  pale  to 
dark  to  end  in  night. 

The  clear  moon  came  up  above  the  plateau  of 
the  road  from  Amiens.  We  walked  on,  one  be- 
hind the  other.  In  silence. 

He  stopped  to  look  at  the  sky  and  I  heard  him 
murmur,  "  How  beautiful  it  Is." 

This  twilight  must  have  recalled  to  him  the 
skies  of  the  Orient. 

"  Yes,  the  sunsets  on  the  sea,  in  the  Indies,  in 
the  Red  Sea.    I  am  homesick  for  the  light  and  the 
sea.    The  light,  the  sea,  the  woman;  the  greatest 
joys,  the  greatest  sorrows!  !  I" 
[209] 


COVERED  WITH  MUD  AND  GLORY 

He  fell  Into  his  revery  again. 

We  reached  the  orchard  above  the  great 
quarry,  and  an  outlying  picket  warned  us  that 
the  path  was  dangerous. 

The  commander  did  not  even  hear  him  and 
continued  to  walk  on  the  road  from  Herbecourt, 
bordered  by  apple  trees  in  blossom. 

"Ta-co!" 

A  German  bullet  tore  through  the  night,  and  a 
broken  branch  with  its  white  petals  fell  at  our 
feet. 

He  picked  It  up  and  looked  at  It  a  long  time; 
plucked  a  blossom  and  put  it  in  his  pocket, 

^'  Even  the  flowers !  " 

He  said  nothing  more  that  evening.  We  went 
through  the  front  lines  of  the  sector  until  late  at 
night,  stopping  at  the  loopholes  to  observe  the 
enemy's  position  and  questioning  the  sentries. 

We  got  back  to  Frolssy  at  three  o'clock  in  the 
morning,  and  at  six  he  went  to  the  station  at 
Guillaucourt  and  left  on  his  leave. 

When  he  got  back,  the  attack,  they  said,  was 
near;  they  were  preparing  for  it  seriously.     He 
did  not  give  up  attending  to  the  slightest  details 
[210] 


A    COMMANDER 

of  the  battalion.  He  showed  a  paternal  interest 
In  his  men,  knew  the  men  of  all  ranks  by  their 
names,  and  stopped  those  he  met  and  talked  to 
them  familiarly. 

The  battalion  followed  the  deep  path  to  the 
entrance  of  the  "  120  long"  to  get  back  to  Its 
positions.  A  wooden  bridge  had  been  constructed 
here  by  the  artillery  to  get  their  guns  across.  This 
was  useless  now  and  made  the  road  so  narrow  that 
the  column  had  to  dress  back  and  form  by  twos. 
This  long  manoeuvre  compelled  the  men  to  mark 
time  In  one  spot. 

There  Is  nothing  especially  disagreeable  about 
marking  time  for  we  have  seen  many  other  stops 
for  less  reasons,  but  this  evening  the  Boche  artil- 
lery had  Information  of  the  arrival  of  the  attacking 
regiment  In  the  lines  and  was  shelling  heavily  all 
possible  ways  of  access. 

A  single  "  77  "  falling  Into  this  crowd  of  men 
would  make  a  hecatomb. 

The  commander  was  marching  at  the  head  of 
the  column  followed  by  the  Intelligence  officers  of 
the  companies. 

He  stopped  a  moment  in  front  of  the  bridge 
encircled  by  the  explosions  of  the  shells. 
[211] 


COVERED  WITH  MUD  AND  GLORY 

''  If  a  shell  would  only  destroy  it!  " 

But  as  if  for  spite,  they  fell  all  around  and 
missed  it. 

"  It  must  be  destroyed." 

There  was  nothing  formal  about  this  order, 
and  the  task  was  n't  easy. 

He  took  off  his  belts,  gave  his  jacket  to  a  man, 
and  with  his  chest  bare  the  commander  stood  up 
on  the  bridge,  propped  himself  on  the  timbers  of 
the  floor,  and  began  to  tear  them  up. 

Ten  men  imitated  him  of  their  own  accord. 
They  finished  tearing  it  down  amidst  a  storm  of 
shells  which  raged  about,  and  in  the  black  smoke 
of  the  explosions  in  which  they  disappeared  for 
minutes  at  a  time. 

In  a  quarter  of  an  hour  the  way  was  clear;  all 
that  was  left  was  the  two  laterals  which  were 
planted  in  the  walls  of  the  covered  path. 

The  battalion  was  engulfed  in  the  whirlpool 
and  passed  without  loss. 

The  commander  stood  on  the  pile  of  materials 
and  watched  the  men  file  past.  He  was  the  last 
one  over. 

When  we  reached  the  line,  he  began  to  walk  up 
and  down  incessantly. 

[212] 


A    COMMANDER 

The  fire  of  our  batteries  had  been  uninterrupted 
for  three  days ;  and  this  with  the  constant  whizzing 
of  shells  as  they  passed  over  our  heads  put  our 
nerves  almost  as  much  on  edge  as  the  strain  of  the 
approaching  attack. 

Towards  eleven  o'clock  one  night  there  was  an 
Intense  calm  all  of  a  sudden. 

The  firing  ceased  along  the  whole  line  —  on 
both  sides.  All  was  silence,  but  it  was  the  silence 
which  precedes  the  storm,  the  stupor  of  nature 
after  the  flash  and  before  the  thunder. 

The  men  burrowed  In  the  saps  and  fell  asleep. 
The  sentries  who  had  not  closed  an  eye  for  forty- 
eight  hours  continued  to  fight  against  sleep. 

It  was  almost  impossible  to  recognize  the  com- 
mander in  his  bizarre  garb,  wrapped  In  a  canvas 
instead  of  a  waterproof,  his  steel  helmet  covered 
with  mud,  as  he  wandered  up  and  down  the 
trenches,  with  a  kind  word  of  encouragement  for 
each  one. 

In  the  "  Ser^aan  "  trench  there  was  an  exposed 
passage  to  the  German  lines.  They  had  blocked 
this  up  by  piles  of  sandbags,  chevaux  de  frise,  and 
rolls  of  barbed  wire. 

As  a  greater  precaution,  a  sentry  was  stationed 
[213] 


COVERED  WITH  MUD  AND  GLORY 

there  night  and  day.  He  was  sleeping  deeply 
when  the  commander  came  by.  He  had  to  shake 
him  vigorously  to  wake  him  up. 

*'  Say,  do  you  sleep  like  that  when  you  're 
sentry?  " 

"  I  ...  it 's  true  ...  I  was  asleep." 

"  That 's  not  serious.  Try  hard,  if  an  officer 
should  come  along,  you  'd  not  get  off  with  advice." 

"  They  won't  come  along;  they  're  all  snoozing 
in  their  dugouts." 

*'  Oh,  you  never  know." 

*'  Well,  I  'm  going  mad  sooner  or  later.  I 
have  n't  slept  a  wink  for  three  nights.  If  the 
Boches  are  as  tired  as  I  am  they  won't  come  to 
wake  us  up." 

As  he  talked,  his  voice  was  drawn  out  more  and 
more  and  his  head  nodded.  He  was  dead  with 
sleep  .  .  . 

The  commander  took  his  rifle  from  his  hands 
and  said: 

"  I  'm  not  sleepy,  and,  besides,  I  shall  sleep 
very  well  to-morrow.  I  '11  mount  guard  to- 
morrow. Sleep,  little  one,  sleep.  We,  the  old, 
have  lost  our  habit  of  sleep." 

The  sentry  did  not  even  acquiesce  in  this  invi- 
[214] 


A    COMMANDER 

tatlon.  He  had  accepted  it  in  advance,  for  he  was 
asleep  already. 

At  daybreak  when  the  relief  came,  the  sergeant 
who  accompanied  the  new  sentry  was  thunder- 
struck when  he  recognized  the  commander  mount- 
ing guard  at  the  loophole. 

"  Here  's  his  rifle.  Wake  him  up  when  I  have 
gone.  Say  nothing  about  it,  for  he  was  very 
sleepy." 

When  the  signal  for  the  assault  was  given  the 
next  day,  after  our  first  two  waves  had  gained  the 
enemy  trenches  without  firing  a  shot,  the  com- 
mander, who  was  to  go  with  the  third,  had  scarcely 
advanced  on  the  field  when  the  whistle  of  a  single 
shell  shattered  the  air. 

A  "  77  "  burst  and  a  cloud  of  smoke  went  up. 
His  thigh  was  torn  off  and  we  saw  him  fall  In  a 
pool  of  blood. 

Lieutenant  Delpos  was  getting  ready  to  dash 
across  with  the  second  section  of  the  company  and 
he  jumped  towards  him. 

"  Go  on,  my  friend,  the  end  has  come.  I  am 
waiting  for  it.  Tell  Captain  C  ...  to  take  com- 
mand of  the  battalion." 

[215] 


COVERED  WITH  MUD  AND  GLORY 

And  during  the  slow  agony  which  lasted  a  half 
hour  he  did  not  stop  following  attentively  the 
progress  of  his  men  on  the  conquered  positions. 

Stretcher-bearers  carried  his  body  to  the  church 
In  Eclusler. 

We  buried  him  simply  on  the  hill  at  the  east  of 
Cappy  In  a  military  cemetery  near  the  canal. 

When  the  news  of  his  death  was  known  in  the 
battalion,  I  know  more  than  a  hundred  who  had 
seen  their  best  comrades  fall  beside  them,  who 
wept  as  though  they  had  lost  their  fathers.  .  .  . 

He  was  with  us  only  a  month. 


[216] 


CHAPTER   XVII 

THE   ATTACK 

WE  had  been  talking  about  It  for  months. 
The  hour  of  the  great  attack  has  finally 
come. 

They  have  been  preparing  for  it  ever  since  we 
were  transformed  into  diggers  and  sapers  who 
dug  trenches,  parallels,  communication  trenches, 
and  saps,  day  and  night. 

It 's  going  to  succeed  at  last. 

This  time  the  artillery  preparation  won't  be 
insufficient. 

We  have  guns,  little  and  big,  of  every  kind,  of 
every  caliber,  from  the  little  howitzers  set  low  on 
their  plates  with  their  large  muzzles  like  those 
we  used  to  see  on  the  terrace  of  the  Invalides  up 
to  the  great  naval  guns,  long,  lean  and  sharp,  like 
a  cigar,  monumental  guns  of  unheard-of  size 
mounted  on  gigantic  platforms,  with  covered  tur- 
rets, new  and  odd  foreign  cannon,  long  as  a  train 
and  mounted  on  rails. 

[217] 


COVERED  WITH  MUD  AND  GLORY 

And  there  are  projectiles  such  as  the  wildest 
imagination  could  not  dream  of.  Whole  fields 
of  shells  of  every  caliber  from  the  small  "  75  " 
which  now  seem  like  playthings  to  the  enormous 
"  400's  "  which  can  be  moved  only  by  gigantic 
jacks. 

And  over  this  Immense  sea  of  shells  they  have 
stretched  a  green  colored  tarpaulin,  dotted  with 
great  yellow  spots,  with  great  chalky  streaks  which 
in  the  distance  give  them  the  appearance  of  a  field 
furrowed  by  tracks. 

We  have  been  encamped  in  a  wood  for  three 
days  under  tents  beside  batteries  of  heavy  artillery 
waiting  for  the  order  to  take  up  our  positions  for 
the  attack. 

And  for  these  three  days  our  constant  occupa- 
tion has  been  to  strengthen  and  set  up  our  huts 
again,  for  every  shot  from  the  great  neighboring 
gun  drags  them  from  the  ground  by  the  tremen- 
dous displacement  of  air. 

That  Is  all  right  In  the  daytime.  This  Pe- 
nelope-like work  relieves  the  monotony  and  serves 
as  a  counter  Irritant  to  nervousness.  But  the  occu- 
pation Is  less  interesting  at  night. 

Finally,  about  nine  o'clock  one  evening,  a  great 
[218] 


THE   ATTACK 

uproar  arose  In  the  companies  on  the  other  side 
from  us  and  by  degrees,  like  a  rising  sea,  reached 
us  —  we  are  in  our  usual  place  at  the  extreme  wing 
of  the  battalion. 

The  adjutant  had  advanced  to  meet  the  news 
and  he  came  back  on  the  run. 

"  It 's  come  this  time.  They  are  distributing  the 
playthings  to  clear  the  trenches  and  they  're  going 
to  give  out  an  additional  cup  of  brandy." 

"  Do  you  believe  it  will  be  before  to-morrow 
morning?  " 

"  Do  I  believe  it.  It 's  sure,  by  God!  Perhaps 
you  want  them  to  wait  until  next  winter  I  " 

*'  No,  but  you  know.  There  have  been  so  many 
orders  and  counter-orders  that  one  can  never  be 
sure.    It  ought  to  rain." 

"  Do  you  think  it  will  rain?  " 

'*  Good  God  I  I  wish  it  would.  The  sooner 
we  finish  the  performance,  the  sooner  we  '11  get 
to  bed." 

The  colonel's  orderly  arrives  with  the  orders: 

"  The  Casanova  company  of  machine  guns  will 
support  the  second  battalion  and  will  take  the 
designated  objective  (Hill  707)  directly  after  the 
third  wave." 

[219] 


COVERED  WITH  MUD  AND  GLORY 

"The  third  wave'!  Hum!  That's  not  good. 
The  first  wave  is  a  promenade,  nothing  in  front. 
The  second  goes  over  then,  but  the  third  has  all 
the  shells,  for  it 's  right  in  the  barrage." 

"And  after?" 

"After?" 

"  Say,  you  must  think  you  're  in  a  cafe  at  La 
Cannebiere.  Perhaps  you  'd  like  to  order  an  ice. 
This  is  war,  you  know." 

"  I  see  it  now." 

The  distributions  are  finished  at  ten  o'clock  and 
we  move  towards  our  positions  behind  the  second 
battalion. 

The  men  have  taken  off  their  belts  and  all  their 
useless  equipment  and  are  in  jackets  with  their  tent 
canvas  crosswise. 

The  diluvial  rain  which  has  been  falling  for 
some  days  has  stopped  this  evening.  The  sky  is 
as  black  as  ink  and  we  can't  see  a  yard  in  front 
of  us. 

The  paths  were  already  muddy,  but  now  they 
have  disappeared  after  whole  regiments  have  gone 
towards  the  lines  without  interruption  for  some 
hours.  When  we  reach  the  communication  trench 
it  is  no  longer  a  trench  at  all,  but  a  stream  of  fluid 

[  220  ] 


THE   ATTACK 

mud,  where  we  sink  over  our  leggings.  We  have 
to  use  our  hands  to  pull  out  our  legs  when  they 
get  stuck. 

"  Well,  mon  vieux,  if  we  have  to  go  clear  to 
Berlin  at  this  pace,  we  won't  get  there  before  to- 
morrow morning!  .  .   ." 

It  is  so  dark  that  we  can  scarcely  see  the  back 
of  the  comrade  in  front  of  us.  We  march  in 
silence,  with  our  hands  on  the  sheaths  of  the 
bayonet  and  our  mask  case  to  prevent  the  metal 
striking  against  the  sides  of  the  trench. 

It  is  after  two  o'clock  when  we  reach  the  lines. 
We  take  our  places  as  best  we  can,  where  we  can, 
and  with  what  we  can  find. 

The  saps  are  filled  with  companies  in  reserve 
who  will  guard  the  trench  while  we  fight. 

We  find  places  against  the  sides  of  the  trench, 
in  chance  dugouts  gashed  in  the  parapet.  We 
have  to  be  careful  to  keep  our  feet  underneath 
us  to  avoid  having  our  toes  crushed  in  the  Inces- 
sant coming  and  going  to  and  fro. 

Rifts  in  the  clouds  show  us  that  the  sky  Is  clear- 
ing.   It  will  be  fine. 

We  talk.  We  weigh  optimistically  our  chances 
of  success.  But  we  have  to  shout  Into  each  other's 
[221  ] 


COVERED  WITH  MUD  AND  GLORY 

ears  or  we  could  n't  hear  anything.  Above  us  Is 
the  infernal  roar  of  an  incessant  bombardment. 

Our  guns  have  fired  some  days  without  inter- 
ruption. And  the  men  never  cease  praising  the 
heavy  artillery.  We  have  never  been  supported 
in  this  way.  How  far  we  are  from  the  days  In 
Champagne!  We  have  confidence,  absolute 
confidence. 

Day  comes.  The  sun  rises,  the  bright  clear  sun, 
which  will  be  warm  soon,  rises  over  the  ridge  be- 
hind us.  On  the  broad,  many-colored  screen  of 
the  sky  with  its  rays  of  dawning  day,  the  chimney 
of  the  distillery  at  Frameville,  still  intact  and 
standing  as  though  hurling  defiance  at  the  Ger- 
mans, stands  out  monumental  and  black  like  a 
gigantic  obelisk. 

The  countryside  never  stood  out  so  clearly.  I 
note  the  slightest  details  with  a  feeling  which  can 
never  be  effaced.  I  continue  to  look  persistently 
to  overcome  my  nervousness  and  to  have  some- 
thing else  to  think  about. 

I  look  .  .  . 

Below,  in  advance,  are  light  lines  of  freshly 
turned  earth.  They  are  the  German  trenches,  and 
I  think  I  can  see  among  the  apparent  ruins  the  in- 

[  222  ] 


THE   ATTACK 

visible  loopholes  ready  to  belch  forth  death.  A 
little  further  to  the  left,  a  few  yards  from  the 
sides  of  the  cliff  Is  a  small  clump  of  woods  which 
seems  quiet  and  deserted.  Our  shells  have  started 
fires,  but  the  fortified  positions  which  conceal  the 
machine  guns  are  still  there. 

I  look  .   .   . 

The  ground  and  slope  in  front  of  me,  close 
to  the  parapet,  is  empty,  bare,  torn  full  of  shell 
holes.  Young  trees  have  been  cut  down,  and  the 
fallen  trees  are  rotting  in  the  earth  under  the 
growing  moss.  But  daisies,  buttercups,  wild  pop- 
pies, and  cornflowers  have  sprung  up  and  blos- 
somed, opening  out  to  nature,  the  sun,  and  life. 

All  the  fires  will  shortly  rage  on  these  flowers. 
The  blood  of  men  will  flow  on  them,  and  to- 
morrow their  sweetness  will  be  mingled  with  the 
charnel-house  of  corpses  .  .  .  our  corpses. 

Nature  has  never  seemed  to  me  so  moving. 
Tears  come  to  my  eyes.  It  is  not  fear.  No,  it  is 
not  that.  There  are  times  when  one  may  be 
afraid.  Here  we  realize  that  fear  Is  a  reflex  im- 
pression, ridiculous,  and  above  all  useless;  that 
the  minutes  which  are  left  are  perhaps  too  num- 
bered to  waste  in  vain  sentiments. 
[223] 


COVERED  WITH  MUD  AND  GLORY 

But  while  I  look  through  the  mirage  of  nature, 
I  have  seen  a  small  shriveled  figure  with  trembling 
lips,  and  eyes  hollowed  with  pain  and  fright;  I 
have  seen  small  hands  —  long,  pale,  emaciated 
hands  —  clasped  before  a  photograph;  I  have 
heard  the  expression  so  many  times,  read  it  so 
many  times  in  the  letters  on  my  breast,  on  my 
heart:  "Tell  me  that  you  will  come  back.  You 
are  my  all,  father,  mother,  brother,  child,  hus- 
band; tell  me  that  you  will  be  careful,  that  you 
will  come  back  to  me,"  and  a  slight  uncontrollable, 
nervous  trembling  takes  hold  of  me;  but  no  one 
can  see  it. 

The  blast  of  the  whistle  —  the  final  order  — 
rings  out.  I  find  myself  on  the  slope  without 
knowing  how  I  came  there,  in  the  midst  of  the 
others,  beside  the  lieutenant,  at  my  post. 

Under  a  protecting  storm  of  our  "  75's  ''  we 
advance  towards  our  objective.  The  battalion  has 
already  crossed  the  first  line  of  the  Boche  trenches 
without  resistance. 

All  nervousness  is  gone  now.  I  am  very  cool. 
The  third  wave  advances  in  front  of  us  in  good 
order,  in  step,  without  heavy  losses.  We  march 
in  their  wake. 

[224] 


THE   ATTACK 

There,  thirty  yards  away,  on  the  right  Is  a 
knoll.  That  Is  our  objective  which  we  must  occupy 
to  prevent  the  enemy's  reserves  coming  up. 

We  draw  nearer;  my  heart  begins  to  beat  vio- 
lently. It  is  nervousness.  It  Is  the  beginning  of 
the  end. 

Suddenly  a  sharp  noise  stops  me;  then  another 
beside  my  ear.  Instinctively  I  throw  myself  on 
the  hill.  A  sergeant  falls  near  me  without  a  word. 
He  Is  dead,  a  bullet  In  the  middle  of  his  forehead. 

We  are  under  the  fire  of  a  machine  gun  which 
defends  the  approach  to  our  objective. 

The  bullets  whistle  In  a  continuous  buzz  around 
us.  A  sharp  burning  pain,  like  a  sting;  a  cry  stops 
in  my  throat,  on  my  very  lips.    I  fall. 

The  fusillade  rages.  To  the  right,  to  the  left, 
around  me  everywhere,  bullets  bury  themselves 
in  the  ground.  I  am  wounded,  but  where?  All 
my  limbs  are  numb. 

I  feel  a  hand  take  mine  and  grasp  it.  It  is  the 
lieutenant,  who  has  already  come  running  to  me. 

'*  Good-by  for  the  present." 

"  For  the  present." 

It  is  nothing.  A  stone  hurled  violently  by  the 
bursting  of  a  shell  has  hit  me  In  the  back.  It  has 
[225] 


COVERED  WITH  MUD  AND  GLORY 

just  missed  killing  me.  I  remain  there  a  moment 
without  being  able  to  get  my  breath  back  or  to 
get  up. 

All  around  there  is  an  incessant  rain  of  bullets 
and  shrapnel. 

However,  I  can't  remain  there  right  in  the  bar- 
rage. I  make  an  effort  to  catch  up  with  the  com- 
pany. My  fall  which  took  only  a  few  seconds  has 
put  considerable  distance  between  the  wave  and 
me.    More  than  three  hundred  yards  separate  us. 

I  want  to  run  after  it,  but  I  can't. 

A  greenish  cloud  rolls  like  a  flood  over  the  plain. 
The  enemy  is  launching  gas. 

Some  one  out  of  breath  joins  me.  It  is  Morin 
who  took  a  message  to  the  major.  He  Is  now 
carrying  an  order  to  the  lieutenant. 

"  This  Is  dangerous." 

"  One  might  think  so." 

*'  Commandant  Courier  was  just  killed  getting 
out  of  the  parallel." 

"No?" 

"A  '  155  '  square  In  the  chest.  It  killed  two 
officers  and  five  men.  I  've  a  splinter  In  my  thigh 
and  one  in  my  shoulder." 

We  walk  along  side  by  side  as  fast  as  we  can, 
[226] 


THE   ATTACK 

but  slowly  nevertheless.  We  can't  do  anything 
else.  We  get  tangled  in  the  barbed  wire;  we 
stumble  over  corpses;  we  fall  headlong  into  shell 
holes.    The  mud  covers  the  mica  in  my  mask. 

A  hundred  yards  ia  front  of  us  the  company 
reaches  its  objective,  the  hill  and  the  Boche  block- 
house. 

Two  sections  have  rushed  in  and  are  already  in 
action. 

Two  more  sections  throw  themselves  into  a 
crater  more  to  the  left  opposite  a  clump  of  trees 
which  is  still  held  by  the  enemy. 

Suddenly  there  is  a  terrific  explosion,  and  the 
most  violent  clap  of  thunder  that  can  be  imagined 
sends  us  head  over  heels. 

The  ground  trembles,  the  earth  cracks,  and 
through  the  crevices  oozes  a  black  smoke 
which  envelops  us.  Everything  is  black.  Are 
we  entombed? 

A  mine  has  been  exploded  near  us  in  the  en- 
trance. They  shout;  they  cry.  Belts  of  cartridges 
burst  in  the  furnace.  A  swarm  of  bees  seems  to 
fly  over  our  heads.  The  blockhouse  has  just  blown 
up  with  our  two  sections.    It  was  mined. 

When  the  smoke  lifts  from  the  overturned 
[227] 


COVERED  WITH  MUD  AND  GLORY 

ground,  all  we  can  see  are  corpses  scattered  about. 
Our  comrades  .  .  .  our  dead! 

The  enemy  wanted  to  prevent  our  companies 
capturing  and  organizing  it. 

We  try  to  see  something  from  the  shell  hole 
where  we  remain.  It  is  certain  death  even  to  try 
to  raise  the  head.  The  bullets  glance  off  the 
ground. 

Morin  wants  to  join  the  lieutenant  and  finish 
his  errand  in  spite  of  everything,  but  where  is  he? 
Was  he  in  the  blockhouse  ?  We  can't  see  anyone 
in  front  of  us. 

Our  waves  of  infantry  have  turned  to  the  right, 
invested  Herbecourt,  and  taken  it.  They  are  now 
fighting  in  the  village.  We  judge  from  the  col- 
umns of  smoke  that  there  are  fires.  The  noise  of 
the  explosion  of  grenades  reaches  us. 

But  in  front  of  us  there  is  no  one.  It  is  a  breach. 
The  breach  our  company  ought  to  have  held 
firmly  closed  with  its  machine  guns  during  the 
attack  on  the  village. 

The  enemy  knows  this  without  a  doubt.     He 
has  calculated  his  blow  well.     He  has  succeeded. 
He  is  going  to  launch  out  from  the  clump  of  trees 
and  take  our  companies  in  the  rear. 
[228] 


THE   ATTACK 

Indeed  that  is  the  case.  Groups  of  gray  worms 
crawl  out  of  the  thicket.  They  reach  the  ridge. 
They  are  a  hundred  yards  from  us.  There  is  no 
one  to  stop  them.  But  where  are  our  two  sec- 
tions ?    Are  they  wiped  out  too  ? 

*'  My  old  Morin,  we  're  done  for." 

Our  hands  clasp  in  a  fraternal  farewell.  In 
three  minutes  the  Boches  will  be  on  us.  They  will 
kill  us  pitilessly.  We  hold  our  revolvers  ready, 
fingers  on  the  trigger.    At  least  we  won't  go  alone. 

They  stand  up  now  and  shout.  They  are  going 
to  make  a  dash. 

"  Forwaertsf    Gottfordam  isch!  " 

The  harsh  sound  of  the  command  and  the  oath 
comes  to  us  clearly. 

They  dash  forward  to  take  the  crater. 

But  almost  at  the  end,  at  scarcely  fifty  yards, 
the  four  guns  of  our  two  sections,  hidden  in  the 
shell  holes,  receive  them  with  a  withering  fire. 

The  Boche  line  cracks,  breaks;  groups  of  men 
fall  In  heaps,  like  puppets. 

Our  guns  fire  constantly. 

The  Boche  line  wavers,  hesitates,  the  ranks 
thin  out.  We  can  hear  the  dead  sound  of  the 
falling  bodies. 

[229] 


COVERED  WITH  MUD  AND  GLORY 

We  laugh  and  laugh;  we  applaud,  crying  like 
fools : 

"  There  are  our  two  sections.    Bravo!  " 

But  behind  the  files  that  fall  are  others  in 
greater  numbers  which  advance  in  close  ranks, 
one  after  another. 

Our  fire  is  slower.  Our  munitions  are  ex- 
hausted —  the  gun  crew  is  firing  all  the  cartridges 
of  their  carbines. 

The  assailants  realize  this.  Some  of  the  groups 
have  already  reached  our  emplacements.  An  in- 
credibly tall  and  strong  officer  hurls  himself  on  a 
gun.  It  is  Marseille's  gun.  It  has  been  silent 
just  a  moment,  but  it  has  n't  finished  its  task  for 
all  that. 

Marseille  tears  the  barrel  from  the  tripod,  and 
using  it  as  a  gigantic  mace  beats  the  officer  to 
death. 

A  terrible  hand  to  hand  fight  follows.  The 
lieutenant,  wounded,  dripping  with  blood,  on  his 
knees  on  the  parapet,  stops  the  demoralized 
enemy  with  shots  from  his  revolver. 

But  this  heroic  defense  of  the  breach  can't  last 
long.  Most  of  our  men  have  fallen  and  most  of 
the  rest  are  wounded.  The  enemy  is  still  ad- 
[230] 


THE   ATTACK 

vancing,   in  close   ranks   now.     He  is   going  to 
get  by  .  . 

Then,  from  the  support  trench,  which  the  .  .  . 
first  Territorials  hold,  a  company  dashes  out  like 
a  whirlwind,  with  an  irresistible  dash.  It  throws 
the  mass  of  the  enemy  into  disorder,  and  it  is 
soon  just  a  mob,  which  turns  its  back  and  flees 
frantically,  as  fast  as  it  can  go,  falling  under  our 
rifle  fire,  and  strewing  the  ground  with  corpses 
and  innumerable  wounded  who  drag  themselves 
along  on  the  ground  begging  for  mercy. 


[231] 


CHAPTER   XVIII 

WITH    ORDERS 

THERE   he   is,    Captain,"    shouted   a   non- 
commissioned intelligence  officer. 

"  It  is  necessary,"  said  the  captain,  "  to  take 
this  order  to  the  lieutenant  commanding  your 
company  at  once.  You  '11  find  that  it 's  only  a 
promenade.     Go  ahead." 

A  promenade! 

From  the  Chateau  de  Cappy  where  the  head- 
quarters of  our  brigade  were  all  one  could  see 
that  morning  on  the  horizon  was  smoke  and 
flame. 

The  earth  trembles  as  though  there  were  some 
sort  of  a  fanciful,  continuous  earthquake. 

Since  the  attack  began  and  our  waves  crossed 
the  first  Boche  lines,  the  enemy's  artillery  planted 
on  the  heights  of  Clery,  Mont  St.  Quentin, 
Barleux  has  sent  over  a  formidable  barrage  to 
prevent  all  possibility  of  the  arrival  of  reinforce- 
ments. 

[232] 


WITH    ORDERS 

It  hopes  to  cut  off  In  the  rear  the  forces  en- 
gaged in  the  attack,  to  encircle  them,  to  exter- 
minate or  capture  them.  A  wall  of  shell  and  fire 
separates  them  from  us.  Three  hundred  yards 
in  front  of  the  heights  of  the  La  Vache  woods 
from  La  Vierge  clear  to  Dompierre  and  Fontaine- 
les-Cappy,  it  is  one  uninterrupted  explosion  of 
great  shells  which  throw  to  great  heights  enor- 
mous masses  of  earth  and  stones  almost  as 
though  they  were  gushing  from  the  bowels  of 
the  earth. 

This  waste  of  shells  Is  further  beautified  with 
"  tear  "  shells  and  asphyxiating  shells  and  is  de- 
signed to  stop  all  attempts  at  passing  the  barrage. 

This  is  the  delightful  place  in  which  I  have  to 
take  a  "  promenade." 

I  adjust  my  mask,  make  sure  that  the  straps 
are  on,  and  secure  my  steel  helmet  by  the  chin 
strap. 

With  the  order  In  the  pocket  of  my  revolver 
case,  a  solid  boxwood  baton  in  my  hand,  I  start 
towards  the  fiery  furnace. 

The  communication  trench  which  I  try  to  fol- 
low is  impracticable.  It  is  partly  blown  in  and 
such  dugouts  as  are  still  tenable  are  full  of 
[233] 


COVERED  WITH  MUD  AND  GLORY 

wounded  fleeing  from  the  zone  of  combat.  They 
crowd  In  pell-mell  in  their  efforts  to  find  a  breath- 
ing place. 

Then,  sooner  or  later,  after  the  La  Vache 
woods  are  passed,  one  has  to  walk  absolutely 
unprotected  so  one  might  as  well  go  at  once. 

Few  projectiles  are  falling  here  on  the  great 
quarry  as  yet,  but  only  a  few  shots  too  long  or 
too  short  from  the  great  guns  aimed  at  the  am- 
munition depot  at  Frolssy. 

The  barrage  is  further  on.  .  .  . 

As  one  approaches  it,  the  earth  and  air  seem 
to  tremble  even  more.   .   .   . 

One  walks  on  a  moving  wave,  as  if  tossed  about 
on  the  bridge  of  a  ship.  A  displacement  of  air 
throws  one  to  the  right,  the  next  one  to  the  left. 
They  march  swaying  like  drunken  men. 

I  approach.   .   .   . 

Some  steps  in  front  of  what  was  the  "  Servian  " 
trench  is  the  beginning  of  Hell. 

Men,  officers,  and  stretcher-bearers  are  crouch- 
ing in  holes  in  half-blown-in  saps,  waiting  for  a 
lull  which  for  several  hours  has  not  come. 

The  sick  and  wounded,  haggard  and  frightened, 
do  not  dare  to  make  a  move  outside  the  precarious 
[234] 


WITH    ORDERS 

shelters  which  even  the  smallest  shell  would  de- 
stroy and  bury  them  alive. 

A  Zouave,  with  a  swarthy  face  and  a  profile 
like  a  medallion,  gesticulates  and  shouts.  A  long 
gash  cuts  his  forehead  from  the  arch  of  his  eye- 
brows to  the  ear;  the  blood  flows  thick  and  black 
on  his  cheek  and  runs  into  his  beard.  He  waves 
a  rag  on  the  end  of  a  stick. 

"  The  noubah !  the  noubah !  It  is  the  noubah ! 
They  are  going  to  dance.  You  '11  dance  with  me, 
won't  you?  " 

And  he  runs  towards  the  bombs,  laughing  a 
frightful  laugh  which  makes  me  shudder.  Poor 
fool !  A  hole  opens  under  his  feet.  He  falls. 
Perhaps  the  fall  will  save  him  from  a  mortal 
wound. 

Some  Colonials,  fatalists,  accustomed  to  so 
many  other  storms  —  for  two  years  they  have 
been  in  the  hottest  part  of  all  the  engagements  — 
talk  coolly  under  a  dugout  which  is  still  intact. 
They  squat  on  their  crossed  legs  and  smoke  peace- 
fully. The  smoke  from  their  pipes,  rising  in  slow 
easy  curves,  seems  to  set  at  defiance  the  frightful 
cataclysm  which  rages  around  us. 

A  stretcher-bearer,  a  priest,  whom  I  think  I 
[235] 


COVERED  WITH  MUD  AND  GLORY 

recognize,  is  dressing  a  wounded  man  who  has 
escaped  in  some  way  from  the  furnace  and  who 
faints  in  his  arms.  Intent  on  his  bandaging  he 
seems  to  have  no  idea  of  the  Hell  two  steps  away. 
He  gives  him  the  same  care  with  the  same  im- 
perturbable calm  that  he  would  in  the  absolute 
security  of  some  faraway  ambulance. 

A  staff-officer,  a  captain,  is  observing  the  ground 
through  a  glass.  As  is  my  case,  he  is  carrying  an 
urgent  order  which  cannot  wait. 

He  looks  at  me  and  understands  from  my 
attitude  that  I,  too,  must  go  on. 

''Shall  we  try  it?" 

"  If  you  wish,  Captain." 

"  In  case  of  accident,  my  pocketbook  is  in  the 
pocket  of  my  jacket,  here  .  .  .  you  will  take  it 
to  the  officer  of  details  of  the  .   .   .  first  Zouaves." 

''  Mine  is  here.  Captain." 

I  indicate  the  left  pocket  of  my  tunic. 

''  All  right." 

''  Let 's  go." 

He  grasps  my  hand  and  we  advance  flat  on  the 
ground,  bounding  from  one  shell  hole  to  another 
farther  ahead. 

[236] 


WITH    ORDERS 

We  compel  our  bodies  to  take  the  shape  of  the 
excavation  in  which  we  burrow. 

Above  our  heads  is  a  continuous  whistling  of 
shells,  cutting  like  a  sword,  and  the  constant  djji- 
djji  of  the  projectiles  which  tear  up  the  ground. 

The  explosions  are  so  frequent  that  we  perceive 
only  one  infernal  noise  under  a  rain  of  fire. 

We  crawl  through  an  indescribable  chaos,  in  a 
field  of  terror,  in  the  midst  of  a  pungent,  fetid 
smoke.  We  reach  the  first  German  trench  which 
we  conquered  yesterday  morning.  We  jump  into 
it;  we  are  dripping  with  perspiration;  our  clothes 
are  In  rags.  Our  first  act  is  to  raise  our  masks 
for  we  are  stifling  under  them. 

The  asphyxiating  shells  now  fall  behind  us, 
and  their  noxious  gas  blows  in  another  direction 
away  from  us.  We  stop  for  some  seconds  to 
regain  our  breaths.    We  must  go  on. 

As  we  are  about  to  climb  out  on  the  field  again, 
I  see  one  of  our  couriers  coming  at  full  speed. 
I  must  wait  for  him  and  learn  where  my  com- 
pany is. 

But  he  stops,  leans  backwards,  and  his  hands 
contract  and  seem  to  try  to  pull  something  from 
his  breast.     He  falls  inert. 
[237] 


COVERED  WITH  MUD  AND  GLORY 

I  crawl  towards  him.  A  spasm  still  shakes 
him.    He  looks  at  me. 

*'  The  company!    Where  is  the  company?  " 

" Maisonnette "   he   murmurs   in   a 

faraway  breath,  then,  with  an  effort,  his  shaking 
hand  reaches  towards  his  jacket,  but  without 
success. 

''  Sergeant-Major  .  .  .  there  .  .  .  there  .  .  . 
to  my  mother  ...  in  La  Ciotat  .   .   ." 

"  Yes,  mon  vieux,  yes." 

He  is  dead.  I  am  trembling  but  I  search  for 
his  pocketbook.  It  is  sewed  in  a  handkerchief 
and  in  drawing  it  out  it  is  spotted  with  blood  — 
his  blood.  I  shall  send  it  to  his  mother  just  that 
way.  It  is  forbidden,  but  what  difference  does 
that  make?    I  have  promised. 

La  Maisonnette!  It  is  still  three  miles,  per- 
haps more.  I  '11  never  get  there !  The  staff-officer 
leaves  me;  he  is  going  to  the  La  Chapitre  woods 
to  the  left. 

We  grasp  hands  once  more. 

"  Thanks." 

Yes,  thanks!  Together  we  have  done  a  most 
difficult  thing  —  we  have  passed  through  a 
barrage. 

[238] 


WITH    ORDERS 

Now,  I  go  on  across  that  terrible  plateau, 
alone. 

Alone  I 

If  a  splinter  of  a  shell  hits  me,  no  one  will  be 
with  me  during  my  last  moments  to  listen  to  my 
final  wishes.  I  continue  my  way  under  the  rain 
of  shells. 

Why  I  have  not  already  been  blown  to  pieces 
or  buried  I  do  not  know.  How  little  one  feels  in 
the  face  of  this  formidable  power ! 

I  turn  around.  On  both  sides  and  behind  me 
there  is  no  one !  I  am  in  a  desert  in  which  a 
hail  of  fire  falls.     Will  I  get  there? 

At  every  step  I  cross,  touch,  jump  over,  as  I 
run  against  them,  formless  corpses,  cut  to  pieces, 
or  doubled  into  knots. 

Perhaps  in  a  moment  I  shall  be  like  them,  dis- 
emboweled and  my  brains  running  out,  or  like 
those  over  there  buried  under  rubbish  and  dirt. 
I  can  see  a  foot  here,  an  arm  there;  they  are 
entombed  forever.  I  shall  be  listed  among  the 
missing,  and  my  family  and  those  who  love  me 
will  cling  to  this  shred  of  hope  —  that  the  missing 
is  perhaps  not  dead. 

I  go  on  steadily. 

[239] 


COVERED  WITH  MUD  AND  GLORY 

Abruptly,  I  experience  a  nervous  reaction.  I 
laugh  ...  I  become  a  fatalist!  And  after? 
...  I  shall  not  be  alone.  That 's  the  common 
lot  of  millions  of  men. 

What  is  going  to  happen  will  happen.  For- 
ward. 

And  I  crawl  on  anew,  thinking  of  everything 
else  —  a  mass  of  things  a  hundred  leagues  away; 
trifles ;  paltry  trifles.  I  surprise  myself  by  making 
plans  which  I  shall  realize  after  the  war  —  when 
that  is  over!  And,  nevertheless,  death  hovers 
over  me  constantly,  threatening,  and  I  am  much 
nearer  to  it  than  life. 

A  trench  opens  before  me;  it  is  not  badly  de- 
molished. I  enter  it  and  find  that  it  is  an  old 
one  taken  from  the  enemy  this  morning.  German 
words  indicate  directions.  They  abandoned  all 
their  belongings.  On  a  plank  in  a  sentry  post 
is  a  superb  pair  of  prismatic  field  glasses.  I  pick 
them  up  —  what  use  are  they  to  me?  I  throw 
them  down  at  once. 

I  have  enough  to  look  out  for  close  by  without 
trying  to  see  what 's  happening  farther  away. 
'' Nach  Maisonnette'' 

This  direction  before  my  eyes  fascinates  me. 
[240] 


WITH    ORDERS 

"  To  Maisonnette."  Well,  I  'm  on  the  right 
track.  If  the  trench  continues  like  this  I  have 
some  chance  of  arriving  there :  nacli  Maisonnette. 

I  mark  the  directions  at  each  turn  of  the  trench, 
at  each  branch. 

A  big  shell  bursts  on  my  left  and  utterly  de- 
stroys the  whole  of  the  wall  behind  me. 

I  take  another  course.  The  devil!  Suppose 
that  should  be  wrong. 

I  reach  a  sort  of  crater  made  up  of  stones  and 
trunks  of  trees  blown  apart  and  broken.  In  one 
complete  tangle. 

It  would  hardly  be  wise  to  stay  here,  for  the 
crater  Is  hammered  full  of  shell  holes. 

A  voice  comes  out  of  the  ground  between  the 
stones,  at  my  feet. 

"  Oh,  good  morning,  Margls.  Keep  to  the 
right;  the  first  street  to  the  left  Is  Peronne." 

I  recognize  the  joking  voice  and  constant 
laugh  of  Sub-Lieutenant  Delpos. 

I  have  arrived;  the  company  Is  here! 

This  hole  is  Maisonnette! 

All  right!  .  .  . 

And  I  jump  into  the  protection  of  the  bottom 
of  the  sap. 

[  241  ] 


COVERED  WITH  MUD  AND  GLORY 

At  last!    1    I 

White  wine,  brandy,  fine  preserves.  Sub- 
Lieutenant  Delpos  never  lacks  for  anything  even 
in  the  most  tragic  hours  of  his  life. 

He  makes  an  elegant  and  comfortable  dugout 
out  of  the  most  filthy  hole. 

Ten  miles  from  the  living  world,  six  feet 
under  ground,  in  the  midst  of  the  shell  fire,  ten 
feet  from  the  enemy,  he  offers  me,  with  a  laugh, 
a  meal  which  is  prodigious  under  the  circum- 
stances. 

Cohare  makes  coffee  on  a  burner  and  he  flavors 
it  with  brandy. 

We  talk  of  many  things,  of  a  thousand  things, 
all  a  hundred  leagues  removed  from  the  war. 
We  talk  about  Marseilles. 

Sub-Lieutenant  Delpos  is  a  lover  of  Its  pic- 
turesqueness,  of  its  color,  its  sun  —  we  are  in  a 
deep  sap  lighted  by  a  smoky  candle  —  the  sun 
means  something  to  us,  something  fairylike  and 
superhuman.  To  think  that  at  that  hour  there 
are  people  living  under  clear  skies,  coming  and 
going  and  breathing  the  strong  sea  breeze,  and 
drinking  in  with  their  eyes  that  perpetual  delight 
—  a  sunset  on  the  rocks  of  Frioul ! 
[242] 


WITH    ORDERS 

And  the  women  of  Marseilles!  They  are  the 
quintessence  of  France,  revivified  by  the  air  of 
the  Mediterranean.  Just  think,  mon  cher,  of 
a  villa  perched  in  the  pines,  facing  the  sea,  in 
the  valley  of  L'Oriol,  with  a  brunette  that  I 
know, 

.  .  .  !     .  .  .  ! 

"  Oh,  I  forget,  I  must  present  you  to  the  other 
gentlemen.     Come." 

We  emerge  from  the  sap  and  come  out  in  broad 
daylight.  In  a  crater  organized  in  the  expectation 
of  a  probable  counter  attack,  guarded  by  the 
strongest  men  of  the  section,  twelve  German 
prisoners  are  stretched  out  in  the  mud. 

Some  of  them  stand  up  automatically  at  the 
appearance  of  an  officer  and  assume  a  rigid 
military  attitude. 

"  Look  at  that  rabble  with  their  blessed  faces 
like  professors  of  natural  history  or  like  sac- 
ristans mumbling  their  prayers.  Who  would 
think  to  look  at  them  that  they  are  such  cynical 
brutes?" 

"  But  I  forgot.  You  speak  German !  .  .  . 
Try  and  get  something  out  of  them." 

So  I  ask  them  where  they  come  from. 
[243] 


COVERED  WITH  MUD  AND  GLORY 

No  one  replies.  Their  eyes  remain  hostile  and 
timid  and  full  of  fear. 

They  distrust  one  another;  informing  is  the 
common  practice  in  their  ranks. 

I  look  at  one  in  particular,  and,  taking  him 
by  the  arm, 

'^  Dii!  wohen  bist  dii  dannf  ^* 

''  Aus  Miinchen.  .   .   ." 

From  Munich.  Munich!  I  passed  the  best 
days  of  my  youth  there.  Its  splendid  life,  the 
magic  of  its  lakes,  the  first  iridescent  snows  of 
the  Tyrol  reflecting  in  their  dark  waters,  the  in- 
toxication of  its  music,  Munich!  the  city  of  my 
dreams !  The  mystic  grayish  tints  of  the  inns 
more  smoky  even  than  those  of  Auerbach  but 
lighter,  the  impressive  harmony  of  the  statues, 
its  incomparable  museums,  the  June  evenings  on 
the  Isar  and  the  blue  sunsets  of  the  Propylees. 
Munich!  And  this  man  in  rags,  this  tatterde- 
malion speaks  to  me  of  Munich. 

Well,  Margis,  are  you  wandering?  " 

"  Yes,  Lieutenant.  As  a  matter  of  fact  I  was 
woolgathering." 

And  I  come  back  to  cruel  reality. 

"  Since  you  must  return  to  the  brigade  at  once, 
[244] 


WITH    ORDERS 

you  can  take  this  crowd  to  the  provost.     I  '11 
give  you  four  men.     That  will  be  enough." 

"  All  right,  Lieutenant,  but  I  '11  not  guarantee 
to  deliver  them  whole.  It 's  a  bad  neighborhood. 
It  rains  shells." 

He  looks  at  them  and  they  are  ready.  All  they 
have  to  do  is  to  group  themselves. 

"  Go  ahead,  au  revoir,  —  and  a  safe  return." 

^^  Nun  jetz  Forwaertsf  '' 

We  go  back  along  the  road  I  came  by  this 
morning.  The  artillery  fire  has  let  up  a  little. 
As  far  as  the  crossing  of  the  roads  from  Biaches 
to  Herbecourt,  we  march  along  without  much 
risk,  but  beyond  there  we  are  taken  anew  by  a 
crossfire  from  the  batteries  of  Barleux  and  Hem, 
and  by  the  fire  of  a  cursed  machine  gun.  It 
seems  to  be  hidden  in  the  ruins  of  Flaucourt, 
but  our  artillery  has  not  been  able  to  spot  it  yet 
and  silence  it. 

My  twelve  prisoners  march  along  ahead 
silently  with  bowed  shoulders.  They  understand 
that  they  must  march  along  peacefully  at  the  same 
pace  as  the  four  big  fellows  who  form  the  escort, 
and  that  once  out  of  this  zone  their  lives  are 
saved. 

[245] 


COVERED  WITH  MUD  AND  GLORY 

We  reach  without  incident  the  old  road  which 
cuts  the  Le  Signal  woods,  and  get  back  on  the 
road  from  Herbecourt  to  Eclusier.  An  orchard 
here  which  before  the  attack  was  a  signal  station 
has  not  suffered  much.  The  dugouts  are  whole 
and  I  stop  my  troop  to  look  after  my  leg  which 
has  begun  to  bleed. 

A  little  while  ago,  as  I  was  crossing  some 
barbed  wire  entanglements,  I  felt  a  tear  but  I 
thought  it  was  of  no  consequence.  But  now 
the  blood  has  soaked  through  the  drawers  and 
trousers.  I  tear  off  a  strip  from  my  package  of 
dressings  and  put  on  a  bandage  which  stops  the 
bleeding  until  we  reach  the  next  dressing  station. 

I  have  hardly  put  my  equipment  on  again  than 
I  hear  beyond  me  in  the  road  an  infernal  noise  of 
scrap  iron,  oaths  and  cries. 

I  jump  up. 

It  is  our  movable  kitchen  driven  by  Gondran. 
Yesterday,  it  went  ahead  to  Herbecourt  on  pre- 
mature orders.  To-day,  it  was  right  in  the  bar- 
rage. Now  that  the  long  expected  lull  has  come, 
the  lieutenant  is  sending  it  back  to  Froissy. 

On  the  way  back  Gondran  met  four  wounded 
men  who  were  getting  to  the  rear  only  with  the 
[246] 


WITH    ORDERS 

greatest  difficulty,  and  he  took  them  on  his  rickety 
wagon.  This  torpedo,  with  Its  big  sheet-iron 
smokestack  which  Is  full  of  holes  and  twisted, 
does  n't  look  much  like  an  ambulance.  Instead, 
one  might  think  it  was  some  archaic  engine  of  war 
of  the  Gauls. 

Phoebe  and  LIdoIre,  the  two  lean  hacks  which 
drag  it,  are  marked  and  cut  by  the  harness  and 
their  legs  are  bent  from  pulling  this  badly 
balanced  weight. 

Suddenly,  the  bombardment,  which  seemed  to 
have  ceased,  begins  again.  First  two  shots,  then 
repeated  more  and  more  rapidly,  and  only  In 
our  direction.  A  shower  of  splinters  beats 
around  us,  wounds  the  two  horses  and  cuts  the 
reins. 

They  run  away  at  a  mad  pace  with  wild  plunges 
through  the  fields.  Gondran  Is  wounded  in  the 
hands  and  Is  helpless;  he  clings  to  the  smokestack; 
the  wounded  are  tossed  about.  They  shout  from 
the  pain  of  their  re-opened  wounds  and  hang  on 
as  best  they  can  to  the  handle  of  the  kettle. 

The  speed  of  the  two  horses  becomes  giddy. 
They  head  for  the  quarry  at  a  gallop.  A  hundred 
yards  more  and  they  will  Inevitably  fall  Into  the 
[247] 


COVERED  WITH  MUD  AND  GLORY 

canal,  a  fall  of  more  than  fifty  yards.  That  would 
mean  their  utter  destruction. 

I  have  no  choice  of  ways  in  which  to  save  the 
five  men. 

With  six  shots  from  my  revolver  I  kill  one 
horse  and  throw  the  other  to  the  ground.  The 
kitchen  comes  to  a  stop  twenty  yards  from  the 
cliff. 

But  danger  is  not  averted  by  any  manner  of 
means.  Shells  follow  us.  From  some  faraway 
place  an  observer  must  have  taken  us  for  a  "  75  " 
getting  into  position  and  he  tries  to  destroy  us. 
We  abandon  the  kitchen  which  is  now  almost 
completely  done  for,  and  as  fast  as  we  can,  saved 
by  some  miracle  from  the  shells,  which  double 
in  intensity,  we  throw  ourselves  into  the  first 
trench  we  find. 

I  find  the  Territorials  and  the  provost  at  the 
great  quarry  and  I  hand  my  prisoners  over  to  him. 

It  is  only  a  step  from  there  to  headquarters. 
I  arrive  at  six  o'clock. 

Captain  Chatain  is  outside  the  door,  and  I  give 
him  the  reply  he  is  waiting  for. 

He  runs  it  over  with  a  smile  of  satisfaction. 

"Everything  went  all  right,  Sergeant-Major?" 
[248] 


WITH    ORDERS 

"Yes,  Captain." 

"  Good.  Did  n't  I  tell  you  that  it  would  simply 
be  a  promenade  .  .  .  but  I  '11  recommend  you 
for  a  citation." 

Half  an  hour  later  I  was  snoring  soundly  in  a 
dugout. 


[249] 


CHAPTER    XIX 

A   WREATH 

WE  fell  back  in  good  order  —  in  as  good 
order  as  our  wounds  and  the  enemy's 
artillery  fire  permitted. 

There  is  a  roll  call  of  the  company,  now  reduced 
in  numbers  by  half,  in  the  ruins  of  Dompierre,  now 
cleared  out,  conquered  and  organized. 

None  of  the  two  sections  surprised  in  the  ex- 
plosion of  the  mine  came  back. 

There  are  great  gaps  in  the  ranks  of  the  other 
two,  especially  among  the  non-commissioned  offi- 
cers. One  sergeant  out  of  four  and  two  or  three 
corporals  are  seriously  wounded. 

As  names  are  called  and  there  is  no  response, 
we  look  around  as  though  to  search  better.  Lips 
seem  to  murmur,  "  What,  he  too?  "  Eyes  search 
the  distance,  the  turn  of  the  road  at  the  entrance 
of  the  village,  as  if  they  still  expect  to  see  him 
come.  But  no  one  comes.  They  will  never  come 
again. 

[250] 


A    WREATH 

The  lieutenant  has  to  furnish  all  possible  infor- 
mation about  each  one  missing. 

"  Did  you  see  him  fall?  Who  was  near  him? 
Was  he  wounded?  Do  you  think  he  was  killed? 
Did  he  stay  there  motionless?  " 

There  were  as  many  inexact  replies  as  there 
were  questions.  No  one  knew  exactly  or  could 
know  exactly  whether  the  fallen  was  killed  or 
wounded ;  appearances  are  deceitful.  In  the  uproar 
of  battle,  he  who  seems  dead  is  not  even  touched. 
Another  may  have  had  to  stay  hidden  a  long 
time  to  avoid  being  killed  or  made  a  prisoner. 

Opposite  the  name  of  each  absent  one  the 
quartermaster  writes: 

"  Missing  the  .  .   .  presumably  killed  at  .  .  ." 

After  the  roll  call  we  separate  silently.  The 
most  severely  wounded  are  at  the  dressing  sta- 
tions, and  several  are  discharged  by  the  ambu- 
lances from  the  rear:  Sergeant  Pierron  had  four 
fingers  of  his  right  hand  blown  off ;  Sergeant  Du- 
rosiers  with  a  shoulder  broken  by  a  bit  of  shell; 
Corporal  Goutelle  shot  through  the  thigh,  and 
has  lost  a  lot  of  blood. 

We  accompany  them  as  far  as  the  ambulances 
which  take  them  to  the  casualty  clearing  stations. 
[251] 


COVERED  WITH  MUD  AND  GLORY 

Adjutant  Dotant  and  Sergeant  Lace  take  the 
initiative  in  buying  a  wreath  and  take  up  a  collec- 
tion among  the  men  of  their  sections. 

"  Lieutenant,  if  you  will  allow  us,  we  are  going 
to  buy  a  wreath  at  Harbonnieres  and  this  evening 
two  of  us  will  go  and  place  it  on  our  comrades." 

Too  moved  to  answer,  the  lieutenant  acquiesces 
with  a  nod. 

Morin  and  I,  the  only  two  who  are  not  wounded, 
offer  to  carry  it.  Our  errand  is  not  without 
danger;  but  we  start  off  at  nightfall. 

The  wreath  is  light  but  large,  and  its  width 
makes  it  difficult  to  get  through  the  narrow 
trenches. 

We  have  to  hold  it  at  arms'  length  in  certain 
places  above  our  heads  on  the  parapet  and  slide 
it  along. 

Its  ornaments  catch  in  the  stones  and  the  twigs. 

It  runs  serious  dangers  before  it  reaches  its 
destination. 

At  Herbecourt  the  trench  stops  some  yards  in 
front  of  the  entrance  to  the  village.  It  is  raining 
shells. 

The  shells  rage  particularly  on  the  road  which 
runs  through  the  village,  the  only  one  along  which 
[252] 


A    WREATH 

supplies  can  go.  There  is  no  longer  a  well-marked 
road.  The  well  taken  care  of  highway  no  longer 
exists ;  it  is  full  of  holes  and  is  but  one  yawning 
crevasse  more  than  three  hundred  yards  long. 
The  wagons  and  trucks  have  made  a  chance  path 
in  the  neighboring  fields.  They  wait  at  the  en- 
trance of  the  village,  some  yards  from  the  point 
where  the  barrage  persists,  for  a  lull.  When  it 
comes,  they  rush  like  a  whirlwind  with  a  mad  burst 
of  speed,  and  it  Is  a  miracle  that  they  are  not 
crushed.  All  one  hears  are  oaths,  cries,  blows; 
wagons  lock  together,  horses  fall  and  get  up  at 
once;  all  this  In  the  twinkling  of  an  eye.  Thirty 
wagons  pass  between  two  shells. 

We,  too,  make  a  dash  and  reach  the  other  end 
without  much  risk.  The  danger  is  greater  from 
the  autos  which  rush  by  us  like  meteors,  graze  us, 
and  threaten  a  hundred  times  to  cut  us  to  pieces 
or  to  catch  our  clothes  and  drag  us  under  the 
wheels.  But  the  greatest  danger  Is  from  the  tot- 
tering walls,  and  the  waving  roofs  which  the 
rolling  of  the  wagons  brings  falling  down. 

We  reach  the  cemetery  at  the  beginning  of  the 
country.  It  is  still  nearly  Intact.  Graves  are 
turned  up;  tombstones  are  thrown  down  on  their 
[253] 


COVERED  WITH  MUD  AND  GLORY 

sides.  Its  walls  are  holed  with  loopholes,  which 
served  the  last  defenders  of  the  village.  But  the 
grass  is  not  even  tramped  down  in  the  corners. 

''  Can't  we  stay  here  five  minutes  to  get  our 
breath?" 

"  If  you  want  to.   .  .  .  We  deserve  it." 

A  battery  of  "  75's  "  held  the  position  a  few 
minutes  ago.  It  has  just  abandoned  it  to  get 
nearer  the  lines.  The  place  is  deserted;  it  is  like 
a  visit  in  the  country  at  two  steps  from  the  fiery 
furnace.  We  stretch  out  on  a  mound  of  turf  be- 
tween two  tombs. 

It  is  the  hour  of  twilight;  the  sky  is  golden;  the 
sun  on  the  horizon  plunges  into  the  marshes  of 
the  Somme.  A  fresh  breeze  blows  through  the 
privet  hedge. 

"  A  summer  evening  in  the  country!  " 

*'  Within  the  country  would  be  more  in  accord 
with  the  circumstances,  I  think." 

As  if  to  make  my  punning  more  emphatic,  four 
"  77's  "  burst  at  the  same  time  and  smash  the 
cemetery  walls  to  bits. 

'^  Foiitre!  "  This  expression,  peculiar  to  Mar- 
seilles, has  a  significant  meaning  on  Morin's  lips. 

"  You  have  said  it;  the  place  is  no  longer  safe." 
[254] 


A    WREATH 

"  The  battery  changed  its  position  because  it 
had  just  been  spotted.  We  are  taking  its  place 
and  are  a  target  for  the  Boche  artillery." 

We  make  our  way  forward  as  fast  as  we  can. 

The  bombardment  of  the  abandoned  position 
behind  us  continues  in  volleys  of  four  shells  at  a 
time.  The  cemetery  we  just  left  is  nothing  but  a 
ruin,  a  chaos  from  which  black  smoke  rises. 

We  keep  on  running,  each  holding  an  end  of 
the  wreath  which  impedes  us  terribly.  Although 
it  is  light,  it  seems  heavy. 

Night  falls  and  it  is  very  dark.  We  are  able 
to  advance  with  more  security  now.  Yawning 
craters  open  at  our  feet;  we  risk  falls  and  sprains 
at  every  step. 

It  is  the  dead  of  night  when  we  reach  the  place 
where  our  company  was  decimated. 

An  immense  mass  of  humanity  fills  the  place 
with  a  tragic  tangle  of  intertwined  corpses. 
Burned  with  powder,  licked  by  the  flames,  torn 
and  blown  to  pieces,  the  bodies  cling  to  the  wall 
as  if  they  wanted  to  fly  from  the  deadly  fire  com- 
ing from  the  depths  of  the  earth. 

Indeed,  planted  on  this  host  of  bodies,  his  legs 
[255] 


COVERED  WITH  MUD  AND  GLORY 

sinking  In  up  to  his  knees,  the  body  of  Sergeant 
Bacque  seems  to  point  out  the  road  to  deliverance 
with  a  gesture.  His  hands  hold  the  pickets  of  a 
cheval  de  frise.  A  shell  decapitated  him  at  the 
very  moment  when  he  jumped  and  death  fixed  him 
in  this  attitude. 

Thin  smoke  still  comes  from  the  bottom  of  this 
sinister  vat !  It  is  Hell  in  all  its  horror.  The  men 
saw  death  coming  and  tried  to  flee,  but  death  was 
victor  and  fixed  them  to  the  spot. 

The  burial  of  our  friends  would  be  a  titanic 
task  for  our  exhausted  strength.  We  gather  Into 
a  single  pile  the  scattered  bodies  which  the  explo- 
sion hurled  to  a  distance.  With  some  barbed  wire 
we  hang  the  company's  wreath  on  the  cheval  de 
frise  which  commands  the  great  grave.  It  faces 
the  Boches. 

To-morrow  at  sunrise  they  can  see  It  from  their 
nearest  trench  and  read  on  its  tricolored  ribbon 
the  inscription,  "  To  our  comrades,  to  our 
brothers,  from  the  survivors  of  the  second  com- 
pany of  machine  guns."  They  will  see  how  we 
pay  homage  to  our  heroes  even  under  the  threat 
of  their  shells. 

The  drone  of  a  cannon  sounds  In  the  English 

[256] 


A    WREATH 

sector  in  the  distance.  One  might  think  that  there 
was  a  tacit  truce  on  our  side  to  let  the  dead  sleep 
more  peacefully  in  their  last  sleep. 

We  remain  there  kneeling  before  the  hecatomb. 
Our  lips  search  for  the  prayers  of  our  childhood 
to  lay  our  dead  at  rest,  but  they  have  lost  the  habit 
of  prayer  and  our  memories  fail  at  the  first  words. 
We  wish  a  prayer  which  shall  give  their  final 
blessing  to  the  bodies  stretched  out  there,  but 
above  all  we  want  a  prayer  which  shall  give  a 
kindly  consolation  in  the  approaching  hour  of 
anguish  to  those  who  wait  —  to  the  mothers, 
wives,  sweethearts,  who  do  not  know,  who  hope 
and  live  in  the  dream  of  their  joyous  return.  And 
our  scepticism  makes  us  unable  to  pray. 

The  darkness  of  the  night  is  absolute. 

The  charnel-house  of  our  comrades  is  only  a 
dark  mass  in  the  shadows.  A  pungent,  pestilen- 
tial odor  already  rises ;  we  sense  the  sinister  rust- 
ling of  the  rats  which  slip  between  the  bodies. 

Groans  rise  on  all  sides  in  the  darkness.  Some 
shriek  horribly  in  their  agony;  there  are  long 
wails;  plaintive  sing-songs  call  beloved  names, 
childish  words. 

Death,  with  its  accomplice.  Darkness,  gleans 
[257] 


COVERED  WITH  MUD  AND  GLORY 

the   last   rebellious   one   who   clings    desperately 
to  life. 


Behind  us  mounts  the  heavy  rolling  of  the  con- 
voys. It  is  the  hour  for  the  nightly  supplies.  The 
autos  dash  along  on  the  torn  up  roads  in  the  en- 
deavor to  accomplish  their  difficult  mission  before 
the  probable  barrage  fire  begins  again. 

On  the  top  of  the  ridge  where  the  enemy  main- 
tains his  lines  for  the  moment,  a  searchlight  throws 
its  light  on  the  ground  and  in  the  sky,  in  all  direc- 
tions, watching  for  aeroplanes  and  searching  for 
the  passing  of  convoys  on  the  road.  Its  light 
passes  back  and  forth  over  us  several  times,  hit- 
ting us  in  the  face  and  dazzling  us.  It  passes  back 
and  forth,  flooding  the  plain  with  its  moving  bril- 
liant light.  In  its  light  we  see  moving  forms: 
stretcher-bearers  saving  the  wounded  and  plun- 
derers of  the  dead. 

Suddenly,  the  whizz  of  a  shell  comes  our  way, 
and  a  light  bursts  high  in  the  air.  Shrapnel  launch 
their  rain  of  fire  and  shell  on  the  plain. 

"  Let 's  go.  .  .  ." 

We  had  scarcely  time  to  throw  ourselves  flat 
on  the  ground  when  there  was  a  tremendous  ex- 
[258] 


A    WREATH 

plosion.  A  **  380  "  perhaps  bursts  on  the  middle 
of  the  mound  of  corpses  and  scatters  It.  One 
would  think  that  maddened  by  Its  orgy  of  murder, 
the  enemy  horde  wants  to  kill  our  dead  anew. 
A  geyser  of  blood  spouts  up  and  bolls  from  the 
mound. 

We  try  to  flee  but  our  limbs  fall  us.  An  Invin- 
cible force  rivets  us  to  the  spot,  as  we  try  to  jump 
ahead. 

Morin  utters  a  hoarse  cry,  a  cry  like  an  animal 
that  Is  being  slaughtered.  A  corpse  was  thrown 
up  In  the  air  and  falls  squarely  on  him  and  throws 
him  to  the  ground.  He  Is  underneath,  hemmed 
In  by  Its  shrivelled  arms ;  streams  of  blood  deluge 
him. 

I  try  to  get  him  out,  but  I  can't.  My  hands 
feel  around  on  the  mangled  body.  I  feel  the  shat- 
tered limbs  come  apart  under  the  clothes.  I  pull 
Morin  out  from  underneath  by  his  arms.  He  re- 
mains motionless  for  a  moment.  He  Is  stupid 
from  the  shock  and  fright.  I  shake  him.  The 
arrival  of  a  new  engine  of  death  which  explodes 
beside  us  brings  him  back  to  reality  and  the  immi- 
nence of  danger. 

This  time  we  run  as  fast  as  we  can,  stumbling 
[259] 


COVERED  WITH  MUD  AND  GLORY 

over  the  debris,  tripping  over  the  dead,  rolling 
into  shell  holes,  tearing  our  clothes,  hands,  and 
faces  on  the  barbed  wire. 

We  flee,  absolutely  breathless,  across  old 
trenches  which  we  see  only  when  their  depths  yawn 
before  our  steps. 

We  flee  haggard,  in  a  mad  delirium,  terrified, 
pursued  by  the  vision  of  our  dead,  of  their  dim 
faces,  their  torn  brows,  their  glassy  eyes,  their 
twisted  mouths,  which  the  shells  still  mangle 
.  .  .  which  the  enemy  kill  again  in  their  sleep  of 
death. 

We  flee  encircled  by  the  rattle  of  the  fire  which 
pursues  us,  and  which  with  us  draws  near  the 
road  which  we  wish  to  reach  and  it  to  bar. 

A  more  violent  puff,  and  close  by,  grazes  our 
heads. 

"Attention!  .  .  .  Stop.  ...  To  earth!" 

A  violent  shock,  a  heavy  blow  between  the 
shoulders,  a  hard  vice  grips  my  body  and  throws 
me  on  the  ground. 

I  fall. 

I  fall,  and  then  I  remember  nothing  more. 


[260] 


CHAPTER    XX 

DISCHARGED 

COME,  mon  vieux,  swallow  this;  it  will  set 
you  up." 

A  sergeant  of  the  88th  Territorials  Is  speaking. 
I  see  his  white  number  as  he  bends  over  me.  I 
swallow  the  contents  of  the  cup  at  one  draught. 
Ouf !  it 's  strong;  It  burns,  but  I  feel  my  strength 
coming  back. 

Where  am  I? 

I  am  behind  a  bank  In  a  dugout  cut  In  the  side 
of  the  trench.  How  I  got  there  I  don't  know. 
I  have  lost  all  Idea  of  things. 

I  am  anxious  about  Morln.  They  don't  know, 
but  they  say  that  they  saw  stretcher-bearers  pick 
him  up. 

I  have  received  my  reckoning,  but  I  shall  re- 
cover. I  feel  my  trousers  and  boots  heavy  with 
a  tepid  dampness.  I  feel  a  shooting  pain  in  the 
groin  and  something  like  a  warm  stream  flows 
drop  by  drop. 

[261] 


COVERED  WITH  MUD  AND  GLORY 

The  stretcher-bearer,  Bertrand,  an  old  college 
friend,  now  a  Dominican,  stops  a  second  beside 
me,  hurrying  on  to  more  pressing  cares,  to  the 
more  seriously  wounded.  He  speaks  kindly  simple 
words,  but  what  they  are  I  know  not.  He  speaks 
of  country,  the  sun,  my  wife. 

My  wife,  the  sun,  the  country,  the  return  to 
life,  the  walks  as  of  old  in  the  woods,  in  the  hills, 
the  dreams  at  twilight,  the  cherished  plans,  the 
talk  of  love.  Life  is  beginning  again.  Yes,  we 
will  begin  all  that  again.  And  it  will  be  finer 
now  .  .  .  after  the  test. 

A  great  relaxation  comes;  tears  flow.  I  hardly 
suffer,  but  I  am  weak.     I  want  to  sleep. 

The  stretcher-bearers  will  come  presently,  as  I 
know,  at  nightfall.  And  through  the  roof  of 
boughs  I  see  the  sun  die  away  and  the  stars  come 
out. 

The  bombardment  rolls  in  distant  thunder;  they 
say  that  it  is  increasing,  coming  nearer. 

Does  that  mean  a  counter  attack? 

The  sinister  heavy  blow  of  a  great  Boche  shell 
shakes  the  earth  of  my  dugout,  and  the  leaves  of 
my  roof  fall  in  torrents  on  my  covering. 

I  already  feel  anxious  to  get  away.  I  am  afraid 
[  262  ] 


DISCHARGED 

now.  I  dread  the  final  wound  which  will  tear  me, 
shatter  me,  kill  me. 

It  is  dark  night.  Great  drops  begin  to  fall.  It 
is  going  to  rain  very  hard.  The  stretcher-bearers 
have  come.  I  have  to  move  so  that  they  can  place 
me  on  the  stretcher.  I  feel  the  warm  stream  gush 
out;  it  is  very  strong  this  time. 

And  I  fainted. 

At  the  casualty  clearing  station  at  Villers  an 
old  major  with  a  white  beard  gives  me  an  injec- 
tion of  antitetanic  serum. 

Another  examines  my  gaping  wound. 

"  Iodine  dressing,  H.  O.  E.^  Discharge  to 
private  life." 

And  an  automobile  takes  me  speedily  to  the 
station  where  the  sanitary  train  waits  with 
steam  up. 

The  sanitary  train!  .  .  .  For  two  days  each 
roll  of  the  wheels  sound  in  my  head  like  a  great 
bell ;  and  the  belt  which  binds  me  seems  tightened 
into  the  most  atrocious  notch;  at  each  turn  of  the 
wheels,  at  every  movement  it  seems  to  me  that 
the  stream  will  begin  to  flow  again,  and  that  this 

*  Hospital  for  the  Discharged. 

[263] 


COVERED  WITH  MUD  AND  GLORY 

time  it  will  all  flow  out  until  it  is  exhausted  .  .  . 
with  my  life. 

Then,  one  evening,  the  rolling  ceased;  my 
stretcher  was  unhooked  and  they  gave  me  some- 
thing to  drink.  ...  I  woke  up  in  the  hospital. 

A  white  bed,  lights,  nurses  in  white,  who  speak, 
who  smile,  who  glide  over  the  floors  without  mak- 
ing a  noise. 

Can  it  be  true?  I  no  longer  hear  the  noise, 
the  hammering  of  cannon,  and  the  infernal  rolling 
of  autos  and  caissons.     It  is  strange. 

"  Take  No.  7  to  the  operating  room,"  says  the 
head  doctor. 

I  am  No.  7. 

The  operating  room.  ...  It  is  all  bright  and 
white ;  through  haggard  eyes  I  look  at  the  shining 
knives,  the  reflection  of  the  glass,  but  a  sharp 
odor  seizes  me,  sickens  me,  stifles  me. 

I  am  stifling.  .  .  .  My  breath  stops  in  my  chest 
and  no  longer  reaches  my  throat.  ...  I  am 
stifling.  .  .  .  No,  I  hear  the  bells.  ...  I  hear 
the  bells.  .  .   .  How  good  they  sound! 

Is  it  a  dream? 

An  anxious  face,   shining  eyes,  lips  trembling 

[264] 


DISCHARGED 

with  a  kiss,  the  beautiful  loved  hair  with  its  famil- 
iar perfume. 

And  the  gentle  caress  on  my  forehead. 
Both  arms  close  about  it  feverishly,  as  if  never 
to  let  it  go,  on  this  dear  being  who  brings  with 
her  kiss :  love,  life,  the  future. 

*'0h!  you!  you!  at  last!  forever!" 
"  Yes,  Georges,  yes,  forever.    I  am  here." 
And  the  nurse  standing  at  the  foot  of  the  little 
brass  bed  smiles  with  tears  in  her  eyes. 


[265] 


Ht 


i& 


RETURN     CIRCULATION  DEPARTMENT 

TO— ►      202  Main  Library 

LOAN  PERIOD  1 
-     HOME  USE 

2                                3 

4 

5                                6 

ALL  BOOKS  MAY  BE  RECALLED  AFTER  7  DAYS 

1  -month  loans  may  be  renewed  by  calling  642-3405 

6-monrh  loans  may  be  recharged  by  bringing  books  to  Circulation  Desk 

Renewals  and  recharges  may  be  made  4  days  prior  to  due  date 

DUE  AS  STAMPED  BELOW 

L                  i  ^  'i 

1 

JAN  2  31992 

1 

'  ■-'  ^ 

u. 

HKiHB9< 

^.■rro  D;scc"nG 

i.;A<0o'92 

AUTO  DISC. 

APR  0  4  199; 

) 

CIRCULATIO^ 

DEC  1  5  2007 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  BERKELEY 
FORM  NO.  DD6,  60m,  12/80        BERKELEY  CA  94720 

(g)s 

U.C.  BERKELEY  LIBRARIES 


■ini 

CQ0bD6MaM2 


IVI22S679 


u)4 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


